Chapter 1: Prologue - Greg
Greg took the stairs two at a time up to the flat. It was finally over. All of it. All of the entire fucking mess that started the day he’d had to arrest Sherlock.
The inquest had been absolutely brutal. Every single case he’d worked with Sherlock had been called into question, and even some of this best cases that Sherlock had never touched. He’d spent the entire miserable time on administrative leave (paid thank god) and had basically had to sit on his hands and stew whenever he wasn’t getting grilled. His good suit had seen more of courtrooms in the last 4 months than it had in its entire previous life in his wardrobe. And every time he heard Sherlock’s name it had reopened the wound from his suicide cutting him to the bone. The end result, though?
Every single one of his cases was good. He fucking knew that, but now they did. Sherlock’s name was cleared. The entire fiction of Richard Brooke was blown wide open. And now he was on his way back to his office at the MET next week, Sherlock’s return to glory would be in every paper tomorrow, and the Chief Superintendent that had called him a bloody idiot for involving Sherlock could kiss his bloody arse.
Now Greg was sprinting up the stairs with the bottle of champagne he’d grabbed to celebrate. He fumbled with the keys, then shoved the door open calling for his wife excitedly, “Kristen!”
But the flat was empty.
No, really empty. All of the furniture was gone. The pictures on the walls. The telly. He took a few stunned steps into the kitchen and idly opened a cupboard. Dishes were gone too. Greg set the champagne on the counter before he headed toward the bedroom, and saw a big envelope on the breakfast bar. He ignored it for the moment. There was plenty of light in the bedroom, since the windows were bare. The dresser was gone, but Kristen had been kind enough to stack all of his things on the floor. At least she’d left them folded. The wardrobe was gone, and he wondered where his clothes were. He moved to the bathroom, where he was relieved to find all of his clothes hanging on the shower curtain rod. A brief examination showed that everything was gone from the medicine cabinet but his toothbrush, razor, and the stuff he put in his hair. Not even any toothpaste or contact solution.
Greg started when his phone rang in his pocket. He pulled it out quickly, expecting his wife, but it was Mycroft. “Lestrade.” Habit.
“Ah, good afternoon, Greg. Allow me to offer both congratulations and condolences on the day you’re having.”
Greg sighed and shoved his hand through his hair. Of course Mycroft already knew. He walked back to the kitchen and picked up the envelope. “She took everything. I’m guessing this pile of shit I just opened is divorce papers.”
“I am truly sorry, Greg.” Greg ran his eyes over the pages looking for the salient points but wasn’t really seeing anything. He flipped through until he got to the lease for their flat. “Jesus Christ, Mycroft, she was only waiting until the lease was up to leave me. She put the signed letter that we aren’t renewing the in with the papers.”
“That is deplorable. When does the lease end?”
“In 5 fucking days. Not that it matters since I can’t stay here with no furniture.” Greg slapped the pages down on the breakfast bar. “I bought most of that furniture, for fuck’s sake.” He stalked into the kitchen and ripped open the fridge. “She even took the food out of the fridge. Including my beer.” He slammed the door shut and kicked it for good measure. “I don’t know where I’m going to stay while I find another flat.”
Mycroft made a soft hum into the phone. “I would be happy to host you at my flat until your housing situation can be resolved.” He paused. “Please do not take it amiss, but I have resources at my disposal that can expedite the tedious process of locating and acquiring real estate in London, which I would be happy to utilize on your behalf.”
Greg couldn’t help but laugh a little at that. “I’m sure you do. I’ll take you up on that.” Greg looked around. “Are you sure you don’t care if I stay a couple days? I’ll try to stay out of your hair.”
“It’s not an imposition at all.”
Greg paced back into the bedroom. “Good Christ, she took both of my suitcases. How am I even going to get my shit to your place?”
“I can arrange for your things to be brought here this evening,” Mycroft offered. “You needn’t even be there to supervise.”
Greg sighed. “I’m going to owe you favors until the end of time at this rate. Thanks.” Greg walked back to the kitchen and picked up the envelope. He spotted the champagne on the counter. “We can drink to my being a free man tonight, I got a bottle of bubbly to celebrate but it looks like Kristen other plans.”
“I would be happy to toast your exoneration, as well as your new relationship status,” Mycroft replied with a chuckle. “I’ll be en route you your now-empty flat within a few moments.”
Greg raised an eyebrow. “At half four on a Thursday?”
“I have no pressing matters to which I must attend,” Mycroft replied. “If I am not mistaken, you don’t currently have anywhere to go before adjourning to my flat, and would be reluctant to go there to spend the evening without my presence.”
“Yah, it would be weird to sit at your place in my suit alone. But I’d phrase it as your company, not your presence.” It was Greg’s turn to chuckle. “I enjoy your company, but I think of CCTV cameras as your presence.”
Mycroft laughed outright at that. “Perhaps. I will arrive in just a few moments. Until then.”
“Think nothing of it.”
Chapter 2: Prologue - Mycroft
Mycroft looked out of the window as his car navigated out of the underground parking structure and into typical London afternoon traffic. His reflection betrayed his nervousness, and he schooled his features into an expression of utter neutrality.
This is a terrible idea.
Thoughts cascaded into his mind’s eye like text moving across a screen. How would he hide his attraction to Greg when the man was living under his own roof? Could he maintain the façade of a casual camaraderie he and Greg shared when he was intimately aware of Greg’s newly available status? Could he commiserate with Greg on his failed relationship, when his own distant memories of involvement were tainted with betrayal and espionage?
It’s not as if he is at all interested in me, he told himself. I cannot entertain the thought that he could be. There are too many secrets. Relationships are a liability. Caring is not an advantage. Continuing our friendship is as much a weakness as I can allow.
They’d just be two friends sharing space. Two alphas who enjoyed each other’s company. Temporary lodging. Nothing more.
As the car turned onto the quiet street that housed Greg’s flat, Mycroft took a deep breath and composed himself. Greg would never be his. He was meant to be alone.
And he always would be.
Chapter 3: i carry your heart with me
It was late. Although the hall was lit, Mycroft’s flat was nearly dark when he opened the door. Just being home, and the relaxation of being in his own space, unleashed another wave of fatigue, and he shut the door by falling against it.
It had been a horrendous day.
He had received an alert at 1:34am that a proprietary database that he was closely monitoring had been accessed, which was highly irregular as only he had previously had access to this database. He’d suspected for some time that a change in allegiance had occurred within his organization, and had set plans in motion to contain the inevitable fallout from any of the 4 most likely scenarios that could play out in the process. He also had his list of suspects narrowed down to 3, all of whom were rivals for power, though none were rivals of his own; he was far above the level of their petty squabbling for imagined advancement. It did mean, however, that all three had associates that were meddling on their behalf, and with far less finesse than any of his own operatives. He’d been prepared for this, but it didn’t make dealing with it anymore pleasant. And that was why it was now 8:09 pm and he had just shut his door by falling against it and was repeatedly missing the umbrella stand in his attempts to stow it for the night. Mycroft let his briefcase fall on the floor in an uncharacteristically clumsy method of freeing his arm to remove his overcoat. He gazed at his coat closet a mere 4 steps from the door with as much despair as a trip across the Sahara. Begrudgingly hanging his coat neatly to avoid creases, he moved into the flat and passed his hand over the sensor to light the sitting room and the hallway to his bedroom.
An unexpected knock at the door halted his progress to the aforementioned bedroom. He immediately ran through all possible visitors as well as possible reasons for said visit. The person at the door was someone that was known to his security personal well enough that he had been allowed to approach the building and proceed to into the lobby without a need for an alert on his mobile. It was clearly someone who had been to his flat before; he lived on the top floor of a very private building and the location of his home was a closely guarded secret. In fact, the flat, and his other properties within London, were not in his name, nor his family’s name, but were in the names of various trusts and legal entities. Nearly no one would know when he had left the office or about his arriving at home, so it was likely that the person was either lucky that he was home, or had been waiting for him. The second was less likely; even a familiar loiterer, in or out of a vehicle, would have been relayed to him. The knock was confident but not aggressive, someone who anticipated being welcomed into the flat once the door was opened. Not Sherlock, he would pound on the door and shout his name, and his security detail was instructed to alert him anytime Sherlock came near his building. Dr. Watson would not approach him in his flat, he would call if there was any sort of emergency related to his brother. That left only one person that could be at the door. A person he greatly wished to see, but dreaded at the same time. After the second knock he braced himself, and opened the door.
Standing on the other side was Greg Lestrade.
Chapter 4: (i carry it in my heart)
Greg looked wonderful.
Mycroft observed quickly that he was still in his work clothes (grey jacket and trousers; dashing pink button up, open at the throat; still fairly unwrinkled, hair still in place, had spent the day in meetings and his office rather than at a crime scene) and his current state of anticipation (nervous movements, eyes open wider than usual, higher-than-normal respiration rate). He didn’t realize that he was staring until Greg said his name softly, making it a question.
Mycroft shook his head minutely. “Apologies. Do come in, Detective Chief Inspector.” He moved back, holding the door for the other man to enter. Greg walked in quickly, and turned to face Mycroft. He ran a nervous hand through his hair.
Greg frowned. He and Mycroft had been on a first-name basis for years. He wasn’t Sherlock, but he was a damned good detective, and he knew what Mycroft was doing. He was trying to put distance between them. Distance he hadn’t felt necessary when they’d seen each other two days ago. “Since when am I DCI to you?”
He watched as Mycroft briefly closed his eyes. “Again, apologies. I’ve had a most trying day.” He tried to smile, an expression that rarely graced his features unless he was with Greg, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Greg?”
Greg had paced into the sitting room, but turned and walked back to where Mycroft stood near the door. He paused a moment, then moved into Mycroft’s personal space. Just a bit, but enough for Mycroft feel uneasy. “Greg?”
Greg closed his eyes for a moment then opened them, and earnest expression on his face, but didn’t say anything at first. He sighed and pushed his hand through his hair again, then spoke. “To answer your question, I’m here because--” He stopped and tried again, but nothing came out of his open mouth. He stepped closer, and Mycroft took a step back. “Mycroft, you know why I’m here,” he whispered. He held Mycroft’s eyes until the other man looked away.
Mycroft let out a forceful breath through his nose, something Greg knew from experience was an indication of annoyance. “I haven’t the faintest idea why you are here.”
“Yes, you do.”
Mycroft assumed his nasty, cold smile that he reserved for people with whom he was particularly disgruntled. “Please, do explain your reasoning, Detective Chief Inspector. Excuse me, Greg.”
Greg was completely unaffected by Mycroft’s tone and expression. He met Mycroft’s eyes, determined and confident. “Tuesday, when we met for coffee. Last Friday, dinner at your club. The Monday before last when you invited me to your flat for a drink after dealing with Sherlock being a prick at my crime scene. Dropping by my office to supposedly ask about Sherlock. And every single other time we’ve been alone together since my divorce was final 2 years ago.”
“I have come to regard you as a friend, Greg. Gestures of that kind are de rigueur of a friendship as you are no doubt aware.” Mycroft was looking over Greg’s shoulder and his face was nearly expressionless, and his voice was nearly monotone.
Nearly. Greg heard the subtle tremor underlying his words.
Greg moved closer, and Mycroft attempted to retreat, but was now against the wall in the entryway. His mask slipped, and Greg could see everything he was feeling. Fear. Desperation. Panic. Want.
That’s all the confirmation I need.
“You’ve felt the tension, Mycroft, I know you have. I know you’re attracted to me, you try to hide it but you’ve given yourself away more times that I can count. And you know I’m attracted to you, there’s no way you could miss it.”
Greg watched Mycroft’s face shift into the single most pained expression he had ever seen in his life. “I can’t,” he whispered. “I-I can’t, you have to understand. I can’t.”
“Why the hell not? What’s stopping you?” Greg’s voice was sharp with frustration. “Don’t try to tell me some bullshit about caring being a weakness. You broke that rule the first time you actually smiled at me.”
“It won’t work, Greg.” Mycroft’s eyes were pinched shut. Greg wondered if he was going to cry.
“Mycroft I don’t care if we’re both alphas! It doesn’t matter to me, I want this. I want you.” Greg touched him for the first time, gently cupping Mycroft’s cheek. “I think you want this too,” he said softly.
Mycroft leaned into Greg’s touch, relishing the contact, and the implied warmth of emotion contained in the simple gesture. He opened his eyes, and against his better judgement, let his expression show absolutely everything, everything, that he was feeling. All of his desire, his affection, his pain, and his hope. “I’m an omega,” he whispered.
Greg could feel his eyes going wide as saucers. He was completely blindsided. “How… I can smell you right now, you smell like, well, an alpha.” An alpha I really want to fuck.
“I have an individually formulated pheromone mask that I wear at all times. Soaps, antiperspirants, and colognes of varied scents that are all tailored to disguise my scent with that of an alpha.” Mycroft was speaking so softly that Greg had to lean closer to hear him clearly. “It is essential in my position that I be supremely confident in all things, and to a large segment of the population, simply presenting as an omega is seen as a sign of weakness. I would be a target of exploitation and constantly in danger; my rivals and enemies, both on British soil and overseas, would not hesitate to use rape as a method of subduing a captured operative.”
Greg nodded slowly, understanding. He and Mycroft simply looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment. Greg dropped his hand from Mycroft’s cheek, and slid down to his neck with gentle pressure. He stepped closer. Silently, he loosened Mycroft’s tie, then unknotted it completely, the strip of burgundy silk hanging in contrast against the grey of his waistcoat. Greg slowly freed the buttons of his collar and shirt, exposing Mycroft’s neck and clavicle. He parted the soft cotton carefully, and leaned in, closer and closer. Mycroft tilted his head to the side, silently inviting Greg to scent him. Greg looked into his eyes, looking for consent, then lowered his head to inhale the warmth of Mycroft’s long, elegant neck.
Greg breathed deeply, taking in the complex and mingled scents. Expensive cologne, appealing alpha scent, warm skin, just a little sweat, and there, under it all, the most wonderful hint of omega that he’d ever smelled. He wanted to drown in it. He closed his eyes, inhaling, and placed a soft, reverent kiss on Mycroft’s neck. He felt Mycroft shiver against his lips.
Mycroft had closed his eyes, but opened them when he felt Greg gently press a kiss to the junction of his neck and shoulder. He’d expected a scraping of teeth, or even for Greg to bite him, but instead, he’d exercised more restraint than any alpha he’d ever known, and simply given him a kiss. He straightened as Greg pulled away.
There was so much emotion visible on Greg’s face, arousal obviously, but also something dangerously close to love, and what he could only term wonder. Mycroft wanted desperately to kiss him, but was hesitant to take that final step, his capitulation. He inwardly cringed at that word. Surrender? No, this wasn’t a fight to be won or lost, really. Accord? Armistice? Did it matter?
Greg solved the problem for him, slowly sliding his hands up Mycroft’s chest, then around his neck to pull him down. He met his eyes again, asking permission, and Mycroft silently assented by pressing his lips to Greg’s.
Chapter 5: i am never without it
Greg had had a lot of first kisses in his life. Some were incredibly awkward, teeth clanking and noses bumping. Some were lovely and shy, others were passionate and intense, and some were really fucking aggressive. He’d never really liked that crushed lips feeling.
This was the best first kiss he could ever remember. Gentle. Mycroft was clearly unsure, as if he hadn’t kissed anyone in years, moving his lips very hesitantly against Greg’s. As soon as the first innocent kiss ended, another one began, and Greg pressed harder, tilting his head more, and sliding his hand into Mycroft’s hair. He opened his mouth and ran his tongue along Mycroft’s lips. When he opened his mouth, Greg deepened the kiss with a heart-felt groan as he felt Mycroft pull him closer. He still moved slowly, not wanting to offend or overwhelm Mycroft, but knew this couldn’t remain slow and innocent for long. Greg pulled away, and took a deep, shaky breath.
Mycroft’s eyes were still closed. His shallow breathing betrayed his nervousness, but he didn’t release Greg from his embrace. His eyes fluttered open, and he and Greg just looked at each other for a moment. He whispered Greg’s name, his voice lower than usual. Greg didn’t think he’d ever heard his name sound so much like “fuck me” in his life. A noise that could only be described as a growl escaped his throat and he grabbed Mycroft and kissed him with all the pent-up sexual tension that had been driving him crazy for months. Years.
There was nothing hesitant or innocent about this kiss. Mycroft was making soft noises that seemed designed to heat Greg’s blood. It was fast, lips moving frantically and tongues sliding together. This was passion and desperation and ages of frustration building into something glorious. Mycroft was as close as he could get, pressed against Greg, hands fisted in his jacket. Greg slid his hands down Mycroft’s chest to circle his waist, then down to his absolutely amazing arse, and pulled their hips together. Mycroft threw his head back with a gasp as he felt their hard cocks pressed together. Greg took the opportunity to move down to Mycroft’s neck, kissing, sucking, teeth worrying the skin lightly, until he reached his shoulder, where his scent was strongest, when he pulled back to just smell that gorgeous omega scent, stronger now that Mycroft was aroused. He pushed Mycroft backward into the wall, and shoved one leg between Mycroft’s, grinding against his erection with a groan, and pulling a desperate sound from Mycroft.
They just stood there a moment, moving against each other, building the heat between them. Greg had to ask the question. “Mycroft, you have to tell me you want this. You want me. I’m not going to drag you off to the bedroom without you being sure.”
Mycroft forced himself to focus through the haze of emotion and arousal. He knew Greg wasn’t talking about sex. If it was just sex, they’d already be in bed. He was talking about them. Mycroft breathed heavily for a moment, thinking. He desperately wanted to keep going, to take Greg to bed, to act on the attraction that he had been forcing himself to ignore nearly the entire time he’d known the man. But it wouldn’t just be sex with Greg. It would be more. It would be a commitment, an emotional commitment. Even if it didn’t work out in the end, Greg was asking him if he was willing to try.
Was that what he wanted?
Yes. God, yes.
“I want this,” he whispered. He knew Greg would understand that he wasn’t just talking about tonight.
Greg’s face blossomed into that charming smile that could light up an entire room. The one where his brown eyes were full of excitement and his entire face reflected his joy. He kissed Mycroft again, slow and deep, sliding his hands down his arms to link their hands together. “I want to make love to you. I want to feel you come undone. I want to see all of your control fall away until all you can remember is how good you feel.”
Mycroft gulped. No one had ever said anything like that to him. Never. He’d never felt so desired. “Let me take you to bed,” he murmured, drawing Greg into the sitting room by their joined hands, then releasing one to lead him to the bedroom. He waved over the sensor to illuminate the room. He moved toward the bed, and was suddenly nervous. He turned to look at Greg, who was looking around the large room, taking in the opulent décor that Mycroft’s designer had picked out, to which he had never paid any attention.
“It’s a bit much,” he commented.
Greg chuckled. “It’s fine. As long as that duvet comes off the bed.”
Mycroft made a face. “I do believe it can be easily removed. I never sleep under it, it’s unpleasantly heavy.” He turned away from Greg and tugged it off the bed, leaving it bunched on the padded bench at the end.
He started when he felt Greg’s hands on his waist, and then his chest as he pressed himself to Mycroft’s back. He sighed and relaxed, relishing the soft, tiny kisses that he felt on his neck. Greg’s hands slid over his chest, and he caught Mycroft’s open suit jacket, sliding it down his arms, removing it. He tossed it on top of the duvet. His loosened tie soon joined it.
Mycroft turned in Greg’s arms and kissed him, pushing his jacket off of his shoulders, and it dropped to the floor. Greg was working on the buttons of his waistcoat, losing his concentration as the kiss deepened. He pulled back with a gasp. He quickly returned to undressing Mycroft, and Mycroft did the same, sliding the buttons of Greg’s shirt through the holes as quickly has he could with shaking hands. Their arms kept getting tangled and Greg laughed.
“You do your clothes, I’ll do mine. I don’t think I want to deal with the braces anyway.” Greg rapidly began removing his shirt, pulling it out of his trousers to finish then, remembering the wrists, threw it on the floor, hands going to his belt as he toed off his shoes. Mycroft was completely distracted, fingers holding his open waistcoat as Greg’s pants were pushed to the floor and he bent to remove his socks.
Greg looked up, chuckling. “Need some help?”
Mycroft pulled himself together and removed his waistcoat, and slid the braces over his shoulders. Greg moved in, unbuttoning Mycroft’s shirt, and dropping to his knees to unfasten and unzip his trousers. A moan escaped his throat as he the implications of this position entered his thoughts. “Greg,” he whispered.
Greg looked up to meet Mycroft’s gaze, a wicked grin on his face. “Want something?”
Mycroft nodded mutely, unable to express his desperate desire for Greg to put his mouth on his cock.
Much to his disappointment, Greg moved down to loosen the laces of Mycroft’s shoes, and he stepped out of them, Greg then removing his socks. He was vaguely embarrassed that he was pretentious enough to wear silk socks. When Greg ran his hands up the inside of his thighs, however, any thoughts he’d had dissolved into pure want. He wanted, needed, Greg to touch his aching cock. And everywhere else. He could feel himself getting wet, and wanted Greg to see and feel his arousal. “Greg, please,” he choked out. “Please, touch me, please,” he begged.
Greg must have heard the raw need in Mycroft’s pleas, and he hooked his fingers in his pants, and slid them down his legs, and Mycroft stepped out of his remaining clothing, standing naked and erect in front of Greg. He would have felt awkward if he hadn’t been so aroused. Greg’s eyes ran over his body hungrily, and he felt attractive for the first time in years.
His thoughts were immediately derailed when Greg grasped his hard cock, and pulled it to his lips, licking away the fluid that has leaking from the tip. Mycroft let out a strangled yelp, and whimpered out another please.
Greg stopped the torture by swallowing his cock, running his tongue along the length of him as he pulled back, then sucking him down again. He moved his hands around to grip the globes of his arse as he moved, and Mycroft knew the exact moment that Greg felt how wet and wanting he was. He pulled off and looked up. “You get wet outside of heat?”
Mycroft nodded. “Not enough to have penetrative sex without lubricant, but enough to be bothersome.”
Greg slid his fingers into the cleft of his arse, spreading the slick moisture. “God that’s hot.” He stood and kissed Mycroft again, gripping his arse. “I need to be in you. Now.”
Mycroft moaned. “How very convenient, I need to you in me, right now.”
Greg’s expression was hungry. He pushed Mycroft back until his knees hit the mattress, hands on his chest. Mycroft fell hard onto the bed, and pulled Greg to him. They kissed again, needy and desperate. “Scoot back on the bed, love.”
Mycroft moved to the center of the bed, absently noting how soft the sheets felt on his bare skin. Greg crawled onto the bed, and straddled Mycroft’s hips. He bent, caging the other man in his arms, lips hovering above Mycroft’s. “I want you so bad,” he whispered. He bent down for a rough kiss. “But if I do anything, anything you don’t like, stop me.”
Mycroft lifted his hand to cup Greg’s cheek, then slid it into his hair. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Now fuck me.”
Greg growled. He kissed Mycroft again, and moved down to his throat to suck a kiss onto his soft skin. He pressed opened-mouthed kisses along his neck and chest. When he sucked one nipple into his mouth, Mycroft gasped, and his hand was suddenly on the back of Greg’s head, asking for more. Greg gently closed his teeth around the nub, and Mycroft made a sound of pleasure that was almost enough to make Greg come then and there. He moved to the other side, and got the same delicious response. He kissed down across Mycroft’s ribs and belly, until he was panting hot breath against Mycroft’s cock.
“I can’t wait for you to fuck me,” Greg groaned. Mycroft’s cock was bigger than some betas he’d slept with. “I can’t wait to feel you ramming into me, fucking me into the mattress, making me come.”
Mycroft lifted his head and propped himself on his elbows. “You’d…let me do that? Fuck you?” It seemed so vulgar to say it that way.
Greg slid up his body to kiss him gently. “Not ‘let’ you. I want you to.” He kissed Mycroft again. “I want everything with you.” He kissed him again, deeper this time. “And I really enjoy being fucked.” Mycroft was fairly certain that a voice that sexy was actually illegal. “But right now, I want to be inside you, making you moan, making you scream.”
Mycroft dropped back onto the pillow. “Lube is in the nightstand.” He wanted Greg to get off of hips so he could spread his legs for him. “Move, I need you in me.”
Greg rolled to the side to reach into the drawer and pull out the bottle. While he’d moved, Mycroft had opened his legs, and was stroking his cock slowly. He batted his hand away. “None of that. I don’t want you to come yet.” He settled between Mycroft’s legs, and slicked his fingers. “Tell me if I hurt you.” He pressed one against Mycroft’s entrance, teasing the tight ring, before slowly sliding his finger in. He was rewarded with a soft moan. “Like that?” He wasn’t really expecting an answer, but he felt like the breathless “yes” was an excellent one. He moved his finger in and out, spreading the lube and Mycroft’s own wetness, before he added a second one. Mycroft lifted his hips, and Greg took that as an invitation to go deeper. He could feel the Mycroft slowly relaxing, stretching to take his cock.
When Greg pushed three fingers into his arse, Mycroft groaned from deep in his chest. “Keep going,” he gasped out, lifting his hips again. Greg pushed deeper, harder, faster, and Mycroft continued to make amazing noises. “Now, Greg, now, I need it, fuck me!”
Greg sat up on his knees. “Condom?” He hadn’t seen any in the drawer.
“I haven’t had sex in over a year and I know you haven’t since your divorce, I think we’re safe.”
Greg was relieved, he really hadn’t wanted to stop. “Thank god.” He spread more lube on his cock, and positioned himself at Mycroft’s entrance. “Ready?”
“For the love of god, just fuck me!”
“Well, when you put it that way...” Greg steadied himself with his hand, then began the slow push into Mycroft’s tight, gorgeous body. He watched as his back arched off the bed, and felt him lift his hips to take Greg deeper. He pushed in all the way, and stayed there for just a moment.
“Oh god, Greg, oh my god,” Mycroft whispered.
“You okay?” Greg lifted his weight off of one arm and rubbed a hand along Mycroft’s side.
Mycroft nodded his head against the pillow. “You can move.”
Greg lowered himself so that he was pressed against Mycroft, and kissed him. He began to make slow, gentle thrusts, not wanting to hurt him. “How’s that?” he asked when they broke apart.
“Faster. Harder.” Mycroft bucked against him. “Move.”
Greg lifted himself onto his hands for leverage. He started moving more deeply, getting harder and faster by increments. He felt Mycroft wrap his long legs around his waist. “More. You’re not hurting me. Harder. NOW.”
That was command he was happy to comply with. He started moving faster, driving into Mycroft’s willing body, pounding hard. Mycroft moved with him, and Greg was getting close to orgasm far too quickly. God, he hoped Mycroft was close too. He changed the angle of his thrusts, and Mycroft yelled. “Yes, like that, just like that!” He was moaning continually now, begging Greg for more.
“Close,” Greg gasped out.
Mycroft reached between them to fist his cock. “Me too, keep fucking me,” he panted out.
Greg felt the moment Mycroft tipped over into orgasm. More hot fluid bathed his cock, he tightened his legs around Greg, clamping down on him, and Greg watched Mycroft come on his chest. He kept moving, fucking into him, listening to Mycroft groan, and came himself in just a few thrusts. He went taught for a moment, buried in Mycroft’s body, before he collapsed onto his lover’s chest.
Mycroft unwound his legs from Greg’s waist, and just lay there, gasping for breath, and running his hand over Greg’s back. He could feel Greg panting against his collar bone. “That was amazing.” He hadn’t had sex outside his heat since his 20s. He’d forgotten how good it could be.
Greg lifted himself enough to move off of Mycroft then flopped down on his back. “Uh huh.” He turned his head to see Mycroft staring at the ceiling. “Come ‘ere.” He tugged on Mycroft’s hand.
Mycroft was confused for a moment, then realized Greg must want to cuddle. Between the post-coital bliss and the sweet, affectionate gesture, he melted into a metaphorical puddle. He rolled over, laying half on Greg, head pillowed on his chest. Warm, strong arms encircled him and he felt Greg press a kiss to his hair.
They lay in silence for a while, just listening to each other breathe. Mycroft had never, ever, felt like this after sex. Even in heat, when his emotions were a tempest of desire and longing, when he clutched his partner after every round, he didn’t have this reaction. He had to say something. Had to try to express this feeling of satisfaction and contentment he’d never had.
“Greg,” he murmured. “Thank you.” That wasn’t enough. “That meant so much, this means so much to me.”
He felt Greg’s arms tighten around him and they met each other’s eyes. “I feel the same way. Thank you for trusting me.” He ran his hands up and down Mycroft’s back. “I knew we’d be good together, but wow. That was unbelievable.”
Mycroft looked away, the looked up into Greg’s eyes once again. “I haven’t had a relationship in over 20 years. I know it’s a great deal to ask, but-” he paused. “Can you be patient with me? I imagine it may take me some time to relearn expressing my emotions the way one would expect from a partner. I care about you a great deal. I want to treat you as you deserve, but I fear it will not come naturally.”
Greg wiggled and scooted down so that he and Mycroft were face to face. “Yes. Absolutely yes. We’ll be feeling our way through this, Mycroft, my last relationship wasn’t exactly the picture of success.” Greg pressed a soft kiss to Mycroft’s lips. “You already show me in a dozen ways that you care about me. We have to be honest with each other. Tell each other what we like and don’t like.” He chuckled. “We’re both old enough to know what we want, don’t you think? And what I want is you. Just the way you are.”
Mycroft smiled, a soft expression that made Greg feel warm and fuzzy. They kissed, slow, loving kisses that Greg felt down to his toes. They ran gentle hands over each other, and moved closer until they were pressed together. After a few moments, he asked, “Shower?”
Mycroft nodded. He was wet and sticky. The price you pay, I suppose. “Yes, please join me.” They climbed out of the bed and adjourned to the en suite.
Greg looked around with awe, this was a bathroom out of a 5 star hotel. Huge glass-walled shower with multiple shower heads, marble everywhere, a tower of the fluffiest towels he’d ever seen. “Do you have monogrammed towels?”
Mycroft laughed. “Yes, but not because I wanted them. My decorator thought that they were a nice touch. I think they’re ridiculous, and the embroidery is scratchy and unpleasant.” He leaned into the shower to turn on the water. Mycroft pulled out plush white towels that were not emblazoned with an M. When steam began to billow out of the shower, Mycroft took Greg’s hand and led him into the tropical rainfall that was pouring from the ceiling in multiple places.
“Oh my god. This is amazing.” Greg lifted his face into the warm spray.
Mycroft pulled him close. “It is rather nice.” He sorted through a bewildering collection of bottles. “Shampoo that doesn’t smell like my fake scent.” He poured some into his palm and began massaging it into Greg’s hair.
Greg shivered. He loved having his hair washed. “You can stop in about a million years.”
He heard Mycroft chuckle. “I’m just as fond of having my hair washed. It’s one of the reasons I visit a salon for my hair maintenance.” He pulled Greg under one of the rain heads, rinsing his silver hair.
“I think my barber just lost a customer,” Greg joked. “Your turn. Which shampoo do you want me to use?”
Mycroft pondered his choices for a moment. “Do you want to spend time with me tomorrow?”
Greg moved closer. “Absolutely. Nothing I’d rather do.”
Mycroft smiled. “Then this one. I’ll wear my real scent for you.”
Greg kissed him. “I’d love that.” He took the bottle and commenced working the pleasantly scented gel into Mycroft’s lovely auburn hair.
Eventually they washed, rinsed, and stumbled out of the shower, the warm water deepening Mycroft’s exhaustion. Greg steadied him, and inhaled the scent on the back of his neck. “I like this soap. Will you smell like you tomorrow?”
Mycroft nodded. “I seldom use it, as I can often be called into work on weekends, but I find it very pleasant to just be me sometimes.”
Greg dried Mycroft’s pale, freckled skin before running a towel over his own. “You’re about to fall over, aren’t you?” Mycroft nodded, and leaned against him. “If you tell me where they are, I’ll change the sheets.”
That’s a relief. “There is a linen cabinet in the hall to your left.” While Greg retrieved the bedding, he put on a pair of pants and laid some on the wadded-up duvet for Greg.
Greg returned shortly, changed the sheets (tossing the messy ones in the general direction of the corner), and put on the waiting boxer briefs. “Ta for these, love.”
Mycroft felt a little tingly warmth when Greg used the endearment. “You’re quite welcome.”
They crawled into the bed, and without any discussion, resumed their earlier position, wrapped around each other. Greg pulled up the blanket that he’d replaced on the bed. “Lights?”
“Sensor on the wall behind the lamp,” Mycroft yawned. He felt Greg move, and very shortly the room was plunged into darkness. He heard Greg murmur something, but he was asleep before he could respond.
Chapter 6: (anywhere i go you go,my dear;
Mycroft woke all at once, just as he always did. His first reaction was panic; the light slanting through the drapes indicated that he had overslept, and he never overslept. Then he remembered that it was both Saturday and that he had requested not to be disturbed this weekend unless a war broke out in an allied nation. He relaxed back into the warm body pressed against his back. Another moment of panic assailed him, until the events of the previous night resurfaced before he could drown under the wave of terror.
Greg. Greg was holding him. Greg was against his back, with one leg between his, and an arm around his waist. He relaxed again and tugged Greg’s arm higher on his chest so that he could twine their fingers together. He felt more than heard a soft hum against his neck, but it was clear that Greg was still sound asleep.
Mycroft carefully examined his emotions, which were inextricably linked to both his memories of last night and the man behind him. He had feared he would wake to regrets; as he had told Sherlock all of those years ago, caring was not an advantage. He had to confront the fact that, advantage or not, he had cared for Greg for a good length of time. They had first become acquainted when the other man had made a bargain with Sherlock: access to cold cases if he got clean, and if he could prove himself, a shot at working active crimes. Greg had just received his promotion to Detective Inspector, and had been perceptive enough to see through Sherlock’s appalling behavior and acidic communication to the brilliant man underneath. They’d worked together to pull his brother out of the gutter. Somewhere in those ten years, his stance on emotional entanglements had given way to a warm friendship with Greg that had filled an empty space in his life that he hadn’t known existed until it was no longer there. He had been attracted to Greg from their first interaction, he was an incredibly handsome man, but suppressed it, just as he always did when distasteful feelings wormed their way into his awareness. Until Greg had mentioned it the night before, he had not realized that his affection and attraction had become transparent in the time since Greg had divorced. He tried to feel disgusted with his show of weakness, but could only feel relieved that Greg had seen through him, and had acted on the feelings that they both possessed. He forced away any thoughts of future complications.
Soft kisses on his shoulder alerted Mycroft that Greg had awakened. He smiled. Men with morning-after regrets typically did not announce their wakefulness with gestures of affection. “Good morning,” he murmured over his shoulder.
Greg tightened his arm around Mycroft’s chest. “Morning.” Mycroft privately decided that Greg’s rough morning voice was terribly sexy. He felt a tug on his shoulder. “Turn ‘round.”
Mycroft carefully turned over, not wanting to put an unwelcome elbow in Greg’s face. When he got himself into a comfortable position, he raised his eyes to meet Greg’s. He was smiling. “Your hair’s wavy.” Greg ruffled it affectionately. “I like it.”
Mycroft made a face. “It’s appalling.” He frowned at Greg’s chuckle. “It was far worse when I was younger. It was both wavy and carrot orange.” He lowered his eyebrows in a faintly menacing manner when Greg continued to laugh. “Stop. Childhood photos were a nightmare. Especially when posed next to Sherlock’s curls.”
Greg leaned in and gave him a closed-mouthed kiss. “I want to see these.” He kissed him again.
Mycroft was extremely relieved that Greg didn’t seem to expect French kisses before teeth were brushed. “You will never see any of those photos.”
Greg started laughing again. “Keep laughing and you’ll find yourself relocated to Siberia.” His empty threat did nothing to curb Greg’s laughter.
Greg sincerely hoped things worked out with Mycroft so that he could get his hands on these pictures some time. Seeing Mycroft level that withering stare at him just set him off again. “Okay I’ll stop laughing,” he said without much conviction. Mycroft rolled his eyes. Greg nobly reined himself in and leaned in for another kiss then tugged Mycroft close, and wrapped his arms tightly around the other man’s body. They lay still for a few moments, just enjoying each other.
Mycroft hummed a vague response against Greg’s chest.
“Mycroft, I’m really enjoying this.”
“But I really need to piss.”
Mycroft started laughing and pulled away. “Romantic films never touch on trips to the loo and unpleasant breath the morning following intimacy.” He watched Greg make haste into the en suite. “There are spare tooth brushes in the top drawer between the sinks,” he called.
A few moments later Greg stuck his head out the door. “Do I need to know why you have a stockpile of extra tooth brushes? Have a lot of overnight guests?”
“I simply believe in being prepared. And three additional brushes is not a ‘stockpile’ as you termed it.”
Greg disappeared back into the bathroom, and he quickly switched places with Mycroft for his morning ablutions. When Mycroft reentered the bedroom, he saw that Greg had returned to the bed. He held out a hand, mutely asking Mycroft to join him.
As he crawled onto the bed, and subsequently over to Greg, Mycroft chuckled. “I believe that this is the first time I have gone back to bed since I was a teenager.” He settled on top of Greg and gave him a minty kiss. When Greg tightened his arms around him, Mycroft deepened the kiss, enjoying the novelty of being in control of an act of intimacy. Being in heat was absolutely the opposite of control, and the previous night, Greg had been deliciously dominant.
Greg moved his hands over Mycroft’s back as they kissed, eventually sliding his palms over Mycroft’s arse. “Your arse is amazing,” he murmured and squeezed just a bit. “You have really gorgeous legs, too.” He paused in his speaking to kiss Mycroft again, tightening his arms around his lover’s body. “You’re just all-around gorgeous.”
Mycroft pulled back a bit to look at Greg. Despite all evidence suggesting that Greg did not find his appearance to be the least off-putting, there were always doubts. Greg certainly seemed sincere. “I don’t know that anyone has ever accused me of being gorgeous before,” he joked.
“You must be surrounded by unobservant idiots,” Greg answered, hugging Mycroft tight. “The sexiest I think you’ve ever looked was that night when I had to crash here because we’d had too much to drink and it was 4:00 in the morning. You had your sleeves rolled up and just your waistcoat and trousers on.” Greg chuckled. “You were the closest I’d ever seen you to silly, you had this really nice flush going on, and your hair was a mess. I wanted you so bad that night, the only thing that stopped me was that I was too pissed and too fucking tired to do anything about it.”
“I almost told you everything that night,” Mycroft answered. He settled back against Greg’s chest. “The way you were looking at me…No one had ever looked at me like that. I wanted so very badly to take you to bed.” He idly traced shapes on Greg’s skin with his fingertips. “When I woke up alone the following morning I tried desperately to believe that I’d made the right decision, when I felt that I most definitely had not.”
Greg kissed Mycroft’s hair. “I’m actually glad we didn’t, back then. I was still too fucked up from my divorce to do a proper job of being a boyfriend.” He paused for a moment. “Casual wasn’t an option.”
“Do I get to call you my boyfriend?” Mycroft asked, still stuck on that tidbit of information.
Greg looked down and Mycroft looked up at the same time. “Yah, if you want to. Or partner if you like that better.”
Mycroft felt an excited butterfly in his stomach. Just one. “I would very much like to refer to you as my boyfriend, at least mentally.” He stretched up a little to give Greg a kiss. “Boyfriend sounds far more fun and I have little enough fun in my life.”
“I’ll do my best to be fun,” Greg teased, then moved until he and Mycroft were face-to-face, lying on their sides. “Kissing counts as fun, right?”
Mycroft moved into the tiny space between them. “Yes,” he whispered against Greg’s lips, then leaned in to kiss him. When Greg made no move to deepen the kiss, Mycroft did, opening his mouth and tracing his tongue along the seam of Greg’s lips. Just as before, Greg allowed him to stay in control of the kiss. He felt Greg rolling on to his back, and followed him over, then straddled his hips. Mycroft bit down on Greg’s lower lip, pulling a low sound from his lover’s throat, then kissed his way down Greg’s neck. “Indeed, I believe that there are many activities in which we can participate that could be described as fun, without even leaving the bed.” He moved down Greg’s chest and abdomen, kissing softly over his belly. Mycroft felt Greg’s hand in his hair. Neither of them had any doubts about where this was going.
Until Greg’s stomach growled so loudly that Mycroft was fairly certain it could have been heard in the sitting room. As it was, he was at ground zero, so to speak. Unable to contain his laughter, Mycroft pulled himself up on his knees. “Another thing romantic films fail to mention, the need for sustenance the morning after.” He crawled up to kiss Greg’s laughing mouth. “Exploration of my fellatio techniques will have to wait until I’ve fed you.”
Greg couldn’t help but laugh. “I was too worked up to eat dinner last night, I’m starving.”
“I also failed to eat dinner last night,” Mycroft tossed over his shoulder as he was maneuvering himself out of the bed. “I’m rather hungry, as well.” He stretched his arms over his head and watched Greg’s pleasing form as he rounded the end of the bed and proceeded to where he stood. “I must say that you look quite attractive in my pants and nothing else.”
Greg chuckled a bit as he moved close, and slid his arms around Mycroft’s waist. “You look pretty good in just your pants, yourself.” He reached up for a kiss. “Almost as good as in nothing.”
Mycroft felt himself blush. Greg continued to compliment him on his appearance, and it caught him off guard each time. “I don’t know that I can cook in just pants, however.”
Greg playfully slapped Mycroft’s rear and backed away. “Please tell me you’re not getting dressed in real clothes. It’s Saturday morning.”
“Would pajama trousers and a vest be considered Saturday-morning appropriate?”
Greg grinned. “Perfect.” He watched Mycroft walk over to the large dresser on the far side of the room and rifle through the drawers for a moment. “Do you actually own pajamas that aren’t silk?”
Mycroft rolled his eyes as he turned to walk back to where Greg was standing. “Contrary to popular belief, silk pajamas are incredibly unpleasant. They are far too slippery and become tangled around your body in a very short period of time.” He handed Greg a pristine white undershirt and a pair of Blackwatch tartan pajama bottoms. “Simple cotton is a far more comfortable and sensible option.” Mycroft moved back to put on his own lounging attire, his own trousers being navy blue with thin white stripes.
Greg tossed his clothes on quickly. “Be honest, though. You usually wear these pajama bottoms with matching shirts, not a t-shirt, right?”
Mycroft rolled his eyes again and headed out of the room. “No, I do not. I have sleeping shirts that are a great deal more comfortable than the stiff buttoned-up affairs that come wrapped from a department store.”
“Hey, you can’t blame me for asking. I’ve never seen you in anything but dress clothes, even when I lived here. I was sure that you wore matching pajama suits to bed. I even wondered if there were pajama waistcoats.” Greg followed Mycroft into the kitchen. “I figured you were maintaining your prissy, posh bureaucrat look at night.”
Mycroft turned around with a menacing glare. “There are no pajama waistcoats in my wardrobe, thank you.” When Greg just laughed, he rolled his eyes a third time, then gave him a kiss. “Scrambled eggs?”
“Sounds good. I’ll make you some tea, which blend do you want?” He’d made tea for Mycroft almost as many times at Mycroft had made him coffee. Greg ran water for the kettle and the coffee maker before grabbing coffee from the pantry. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that you keep good coffee on hand on the off chance I’ll want some.”
“I always want you to stay for coffee, so it behooves me to cater to your tastes. Scottish breakfast, please.” Mycroft had removed eggs and several other items from the refrigerator and was getting out a skillet. “There have been one or two occasions that Sherlock and John have been here at a truly appalling hour, and coffee was most welcome for them both.”
Greg put a hand on Mycroft’s hip to reach around him to get two mugs from the cupboard. “What are doing with the eggs?”
“I’m adding ricotta cheese and Dijon mustard, as well as sea salt and freshly-ground pepper.” Mycroft continued to whisk.
“What’re the green things?” Greg retrieved the mugs and returned to beverage preparations.
“The ‘green things’ are chives. Diced chives are sprinkled on top of the eggs.”
Greg walked back over and kissed Mycroft’s neck. “I should have known you’d make posh eggs.” He inhaled the scent of Mycroft’s nape. “You smell amazing.”
Mycroft turned his head to give Greg a brief kiss before pouring the eggs into the hot skillet. “My soap lends you a lovely aroma as well.” He shivered when Greg kissed his neck again. “Don’t distract me or the eggs will be scorched. Perhaps you could make toast?”
“I can’t believe you want toast and edible eggs instead of me seducing you,” Greg joked as he retrieved bread from the pantry and pulled out the toaster.
“Pardon me, but I do seem to remember your growling stomach interrupting our previous attempts at seduction, as you put it,” Mycroft called over his shoulder.
“Yah, yah, yah, bring logic into it.”
Mycroft smiled to himself. Banter with Greg was one of his favorite things, and he decided that banter over cooking eggs and toast in pajamas was far superior to banter over a glass of scotch and bitter feelings in a suit. “Logic in all things, my dear Gregory.” He pulled two plates from the cupboard. “These are nearly done.”
“Toast is buttered, tea is steeped, I just need to pour my coffee.” Greg snagged a saucer from the cupboard and stacked the toast on it. “Do you want any jam for this?” He opened the fridge, scanning for jam jars. “Looks like you have a bunch of fancy home-made and imported ones.” He pulled out a pinkish-looking jar. “I think this is strawberry.”
“Yes, it’s strawberry, my mother canned it herself.” At Greg’s look, he added, “It’s perfectly safe, and quite good.” Mycroft carried the two plates of eggs to the small bar with stools in the kitchen. “I hope you don’t mind using the breakfast bar rather than the dining table.”
Greg put the toast and jam on the bar, then got the coffee and tea. “No, it’s great. Much more cozy.” He hopped on a stool as Mycroft set silverware and napkins beside the plates.
Mycroft seated himself with a trifle more decorum. He reached for his tea, then had a thought. “Can I propose a toast?” he asked, raising his mug. “To a lovely morning after?”
Greg grinned and tapped his coffee against Mycroft’s tea. “To a lovely morning after,” he said, and leaned in for a kiss. “Hopefully the first of many.”
Chapter 7: and whatever is done
It had started innocently enough. Greg had put on a film he’d seen a hundred times and lounged on the sofa. Mycroft had settled against his chest with an iPad. Tea and coffee were sipped. Now film, iPad, tea, and coffee were all being ignored as they snogged like teenagers whose parents weren’t home. Somewhere along the line they’d both lost their shirts, and Mycroft was fairly certain Greg was doing his best to divest him of pants and pajamas as well.
Mycroft forced himself to pull away from Greg’s beguiling lips so that he could breathe. “You are a terribly distracting man. I had full intentions of reading the morning news and instead I’m on top of you on the sofa and your hands are in my trousers.”
Greg chuckled, a sexy, devious chuckle. “You had no intention of reading the news and you know it, any more than I intended to watch this Bond film for the millionth time.” He squeezed Mycroft’s firm arse. “I think kissing is a better use of our time anyway. Keeping things fun for you.”
Mycroft kissed him again, hard. “I seem to recall us being interrupted during our earlier ‘fun.’ Would you care to continue where we left off?”
Greg’s eyes slid closed and he groaned. “Fuck, yes.” He opened his eyes again and lifted his head to bring his lips to Mycroft’s. “Yes, please.”
“Well, you did say please,” Mycroft teased, then began kissing his way down Greg’s neck. Where his neck curved into his shoulder, Mycroft paused. He raised his head, and after a moment Greg opened his eyes to see Mycroft’s silent question.
“Go ahead,” me murmured. He’s scented Mycroft after all.
Mycroft leaned close, and inhaled. Of course he could smell his own soap, a hint of the fragrance from the bedding, and a trace of the sweat they’d worked up so far. But the overwhelming aroma was Greg. And he smelled perfect. He’d known from last night that Greg’s scent was appealing, but to actually scent him, to detect all of the complexities of his personal chemistry, was intoxicating. A low, satisfied sound came from his chest before he had conscious control of it. He felt an unfamiliar urge to bite Greg’s neck, but restrained himself, instead running his tongue from below his jaw to his shoulder, as if he would be able to taste his essence, before kissing his way back up Greg’s throat to claim his mouth in a rough, possessive kiss.
Greg moaned into the kiss, and pulled Mycroft tight against him. He was so hard it hurt. It had been at least 15 years since a lover had scented him, and he’d forgotten how much he loved it. And it was Mycroft, and him taking control like that was fucking hot. He spread his legs as much as the sofa would allow. “God, Mycroft, please,” he gasped out between kisses.
“Mmm, I like hearing you beg, that’s quite nice.” Mycroft ran the tip of his tongue down Greg’s neck again. “Perhaps I can make you beg again?” He traced the surface of one nipple with his tongue, light enough to tickle. “No?” He sucked it into his mouth, and was rewarded with a soft sound of pleasure. “I think you can do better,” he teased before slowly biting down. He felt Greg thread his fingers thread through his hair. He knew the exact moment when he’d reached the optimal balance of pleasure and pain, goosebumps rose all over Greg’s skin, and his fingers tightened in his hair.
“Okay, I’m begging,” Greg gasped out. “Please, god that’s good, please, I need your mouth on me.”
Mycroft chuckled as he pulled back, careful of Greg’s fingers in his hair. “I guess, since you asked so nicely, I can oblige you.” He moved down Greg’s body, pressing kisses to his skin. “Lift your hips.”
Greg moved just enough for Mycroft to pull his pajamas and pants down, then off. “I never thought I’d be naked on this sofa in a million years.”
Mycroft laughed softly. “I never thought I’d have you naked on my sofa in a million years, much though I wished it.” He kissed Greg’s hip. “You’re absolutely living up to my fantasy, don’t worry.”
Greg started to laugh, but it turned to a breathy moan as he felt the delicate touch of Mycroft’s tongue on his cock. He flexed his fingers in Mycroft’s hair, and felt him hesitate. He was about to ask what was wrong when Mycroft brought his aching cock to his mouth and licked away the moisture that was leaking from the tip. He’d barely taken a breath before all the air was forced out of his lungs when Mycroft wrapped his lips around the head, and slowly slid down. “Oh, god, Mycroft,” he whispered. He started moving then, making excellent use of his tongue, but still seemed hesitant. It occurred to him that Mycroft may not have given head since that relationship 20 years ago. Greg smoothed his fingers through Mycroft’s soft hair and whispered, “That’s amazing, love.”
Mycroft pulled off to breathe, and looked at Greg’s flushed face. His eyes were closed, his mouth was open, and there was every indication that he was enjoying the experience. It was greatly encouraging. He ran the flat of his tongue up the underside of Greg’s cock, pulling a moan from him, before sucking the head back into his mouth. All the while, Greg moved his fingers through his hair, but didn’t pull it, or push him down. Greg is an exceptionally considerate lover, he mused. He redoubled his efforts, taking him as deep as he could, moving more quickly, applying more suction. He found that he really wanted to know what Greg would sound like when he came down his throat.
Greg let out a moan that would probably have been embarrassing if he could be arsed to care about it. “Fuck, yes, Mycroft, god, like that,” he babbled. He was on the edge, now, he just needed a little push and he’d come. “I’m so close.” When he felt the pad of Mycroft’s thumb press against his entrance, it was all over. He was pretty sure he shouted loud enough for the neighbors to hear, and there were sparks flashing behind his eyelids.
When Greg could open his eyes, he met Mycroft’s pensive blue ones. “That. That was amazing.” He watched Mycroft visibly relax. “Come ‘ere.” Mycroft carefully maneuvered himself to being lying on Greg without pitching them both onto the floor. As soon as Mycroft was close enough, Greg pulled him in for a kiss. “That was fantastic. Thank you.”
Mycroft let out a nearly inaudible sigh of relief. “I’m glad. I fear I’m a bit out of practice.”
Greg chuckled. “You coulda fooled me.” He ran his hands up and down Mycroft’s freckled back. “Switch me spots? I’d love to return the favor.”
Mycroft lifted his head from Greg’s clavicle. “You don’t have to.”
Greg raised an eyebrow. “What if I want to?” He watched Mycroft blink a few times, considering. Why is he over thinking this? He was starting to have vague suspicions about Mycroft’s last lover being someone he would not like.
Mycroft finally nodded. “Alright, thank you.” He moved off of Greg so that he could take his spot on the sofa. He sighed contentedly as he felt Greg’s weight settle on him. When Greg kissed him gently, he smoothed his hands over his back and shoulders.
Greg pulled back. “I’m out of practice, too. If I do anything you don’t like, tell me.” He kept Mycroft’s gaze until he nodded, then immediately resumed kissing him. When he started to feel him getting hard under his thigh, he moved his lips down to his long, pale neck, pressing kisses under his jaw and dragging his teeth lightly over the stubbled skin. He closed his teeth ever-so-gently over the juncture of his neck and shoulder, pulling a lovely moan from Mycroft, and he was further rewarded with nails raking his back. He’s so responsive, I love it.
Mimicking Mycroft’s earlier movements, he licked and sucked his nipples, before moving down his abdomen. He paused to tickle Mycroft’s belly button with his tongue, drawing surprised giggles from him, before tugging on his pajamas. Mycroft moved to allow Greg to undress him, then Greg positioned his legs, one on the low back of the sofa, the other foot on the floor.
In reality, Mycroft felt terribly exposed and somewhat embarrassed, but he nodded anyway.
“Do you like to be fingered during a blow job?”
Mycroft lifted his head from the pillow to meet Greg’s eyes. “I don’t know, but it’s a moot point, I’m a bit sore and don’t believe I’d enjoy it right now.”
“Got it. We’ll save that for next time, then.” He pressed a gentle kiss to the inside of Mycroft’s thigh. When Mycroft responded with a tiny gasp, he continued the small kisses, moving from near his knee to where his leg met his body. He felt goosebumps rise on Mycroft’s soft skin and smiled. I haven’t even done anything yet. Greg rubbed his hands up Mycroft’s thighs, before taking his cock in hand and bringing it to his mouth. At the first touch of his tongue, Mycroft jumped. Greg licked him again, from the root to tip, with more pressure, and Mycroft let out a loud moan. Taking that as a good sign, he took the head in his mouth, sucking lightly, then backing off to swirl his tongue around.
“I—Greg—Oh my god.” Mycroft sounded completely gone.
“It gets better, love.” With that, he took Mycroft’s cock in his mouth, then slowly slid down to take the entire length. He gagged just a bit, he hadn’t done that in god knows how long, but the shout from Mycroft made it worth it. He pulled up and worked the head with his tongue again, before swallowing him back down. Mycroft didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. Greg grabbed one, and put it in his hair. Mycroft immediately gripped it, not quite pulling. Greg moaned around his cock before sliding down again. He kept up his pace, and soon Mycroft was bucking his hips and crying out. When his body went taught, Greg took him as deep has he could, and he continued to hold him in his mouth as Mycroft slowly relaxed. He pulled back carefully, mindful of Mycroft’s fingers tangled in his hair, and pulled off when Mycroft released him. He sought Mycroft’s gaze, but his eyes were still closed, and he was panting. Greg grinned.
“I take it you enjoyed that?”
Mycroft lifted his head. “I’m so sorry, I couldn’t keep my hips still. And I pulled your hair. I’m sorry.”
Greg was taken aback. “No worries, love, that doesn’t bother me.”
When Mycroft, looked at Greg’s open face, he saw just confusion, no anger or revulsion. He relaxed. “Still, it was a bit rude of me.”
Greg chuckled. “I like a little hair-pulling. And I’m going to consider your hips a compliment.”
Mycroft smiled. “A well-deserved compliment.” He lifted a hand to indicate Greg should lie down.
Greg stretched out, kissing Mycroft sweetly, before settling himself on top of his boyfriend. He hummed when Mycroft began running his fingers through his hair.
After a few moments, Greg lifted his head to see if he could spot any kind of clock without moving. “What time is it?”
“I would be happy to check that for you, but it will unfortunately require that you move.”
Greg dropped his head back onto Mycroft’s collar bone. “No.” He kissed the sweaty skin beneath his lips.
Mycroft huffed an amused breath. “You are a ridiculous man.” He stroked a hand through Greg’s hair and down his neck. “Why do you need to know the time?” Is he tired of me?
Greg lifted his head and kissed Mycroft’s chin. “I was thinking about plans.”
“What kind of plans?”
Greg reluctantly levered himself up so he could sit on his knees. “I’d like to take you out on a date.”
“A date?” Mycroft said it like it was a word in a foreign language.
“Yeah, like I could take you out to dinner?” Greg smiled, inviting Mycroft to share his idea. “Just a normal date, like normal people have, where they like each other and want to spend time together.”
“What comprises a not-normal people date?” Mycroft asked with a raised eyebrow.
Greg laughed. “What we’ve been doing for 2 years, where we eat at your club or some ridiculously exclusive place where the only reason I’m enjoying myself is because I’m with you.”
Mycroft’s face started to shift into a sour expression that Greg, personally, thought was both cute and funny, but then he stopped to look at him more seriously. “Are you saying that you considered all of our previous outings dates?” The thought was a bit…he didn’t know what it was. Thrilling, maybe.
Greg leaned over Mycroft, bracing his hands on the arm of the sofa above his head, and leaned down to kiss him. “I liked to pretend they were dates, even before Kristen and I split up.” He kissed Mycroft again. “But somewhere around 6 months after my divorce, you took me to a stupidly romantic restaurant and you looked away when I tried to tease you about it, and I knew you thought of it as a date, too.” Greg took advantage of his position to spot a clock, then laid down on Mycroft, head on his shoulder. “I was giddy, by the way.” He kissed Mycroft’s neck.
Mycroft could feel himself blushing. “I must admit, that my choice of venue was a little bit of wishful thinking on my part. I thought I could enjoy the illusion of a relationship with you for the evening, and return to my normal, detached, position the following day. Instead I made myself miserable going home without you and wondering if you were mortified by my clumsy attempt to assuage my need for your affection.”
Greg squeezed Mycroft tight. “I kept hoping you’d do something romantic, like straighten my tie or touch my hand on the table or kiss me goodnight. When you didn’t I wondered if maybe I’d read it wrong. I kept planning to make the move the next time, but you never took me anywhere like that again.”
Mycroft sighed. “I wanted to take you there again, so many times, but I was afraid I’d act on my feelings. I couldn’t take the risk.”
Greg squeezed him again. “Probably for the best. Like with the night here, I wasn’t ready to be a good boyfriend then.” He kissed Mycroft’s lovely neck again.
They were quiet for a few moments, before Greg noticed that Mycroft was shifting around. “What’s wrong?”
“As comfortable as this sofa is, it is less so when naked and somewhat damp with a large man resting on top of you.”
Greg laughed, and maneuvered off of Mycroft without causing either of them injury. “Fair enough.” He retrieved his pajamas and tossed Mycroft’s to him. “It’s just after 2, so how does this sound. I head home, shower, shave, pack a bag for tonight, pick you up about 6 for dinner? I’ll make reservations at a place I know we’ve never gone to that I know you’ll like.” He already knew exactly where, it was one of his favorite spots. And it was both romantic and casual.
Mycroft looked at him after putting on his pants. “That sounds agreeable. I have a few things to which I must attend.”
Greg walked over and kissed him. “So you can’t wear a suit.” He kissed him again. “You have to wear normal clothes.”
Mycroft pulled back and gave him a skeptical look. “Suits are not normal clothes?”
“For this to be a normal date like normal people, you need to wear something casual. No suits. And normal shoes. Wait, do you have normal shoes?”
Mycroft could tell that Greg was half teasing, half serious. “I do have a small selection of casual wear, thank you very much.” He didn’t mention that it was all for blending in when he needed to go unrecognized.
Greg grinned. “Great. I’m wearing jeans. Do you have jeans?” Greg was struck by a horrible thought. “Have you ever actually worn jeans?”
Mycroft rolled his eyes in a manner normally reserved for Sherlock. “Yes, Greg, I was young once. I don’t believe I have any jeans. Trousers may have to suffice.”
Greg just laughed. “That’s fine. No jacket, no tie, no waistcoat.”
“Will all of our dates have such an exacting dress code?”
Greg gave him a mock-severe look. “Yes.”
Chapter 8: by only me is your doing
Translation in the end notes.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Greg was feeling pretty damned good when he walked into his flat. Like, singing-in-the-shower good. He couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, so he wouldn’t actually sing, but seriously, he was almost giddy. He dropped his phone, keys, and wallet on the table by the door, and was headed to the kitchen when his phone rang. He grabbed it, and saw that it was his mother. “Lestrade.” Habit. “Hi Mum.”
“Hi, love, you mentioned that you might drop by today, are you still coming? I have to pop down to the shops and don’t want to miss you.”
Greg groaned internally. He’d forgotten about going to his parents’ house. “Aw, crap. Sorry, Mum, I can’t come by today, I should have called you last night.”
“Well, do you want to come for dinner then? It’s too late in the day to start a roast, but I could do some pasta or tikka or something.”
Well, that was an opening if he’d ever heard one. “I, uh, can’t tonight, Mum. I have, uh, a date.”
“A date? That’s wonderful! How did you meet her? Not someone from work, right, that never works out.” She paused a moment but started before Greg could figure out what to say. “Not another bitch who thinks alpha cops are sexy and is going to screw around when she sees how much you work, right?”
Greg groaned outload this time. “No, Mum.” His mother hated his ex-wife. His mother had hated her when she was his wife, too. “It’s not someone from work, but we have worked together. Government.”
“A government person? What does she do that she deals with the police?”
Greg closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “It’s, um, a him.”
“Oh, and you let me go on about him like he was a woman. An omega this time?”
Greg was about to blurt out yes before he caught himself. But he had no idea how his mum was going to feel about this. “No, he’s an alpha.”
“Oh.” Silence from his mum for a moment. He’d had relationships with other alphas before, but wasn’t sure if his mum knew that. He’d never lied about his sexuality, but some things you just didn’t gossip about with your mum. At least he didn’t gossip with his mum about the men he was having sex with.
“Aren’t you afraid that you’ll have a problem with fighting a lot? That alpha dominance nonsense.”
Well that was unexpected. “No actually, we were both raised better than that.” He waited while his mother chuckled. “We’ve known each other for years, we know how to disagree with each other without starting a war.”
“How long have you been seeing each other? You haven’t said anything about him.” She had that vaguely accusing tone that only mothers could use.
“Only since last night, actually,” Greg answered. “I’m taking him on our first real date in a couple hours.”
“So you need to go, I get it,” his mother replied, pretending to be put out. “Be safe, dear.”
“Oh my god, Mum, I’m 45, I think I’ve got that part figured out.” Greg didn’t know if it was possible to be more embarrassed while standing in his kitchen alone.
His mother just laughed. “Love you, dear. Have a good time.”
“Love you too, Mum. Bye.”
Well now his mother knew about Mycroft. Sort of. He wondered if he’d ever be able to tell anyone about dating him. Wouldn’t that make him a liability? And Mycroft probably couldn’t be seen as gay any more than he could be outed as an omega. I guess I have some stuff I need to ask him.
His phone chimed, and he looked at it. A text preview from Mycroft was on the screen, and he swiped to open it.
Can I wear a dress shirt? None of my casual shirts are appropriate for the weather. –M
Greg grinned. Yeah that’s fine. –G
Thank goodness, I had no desire to do any shopping today. –M
Greg laughed. God no don’t go shopping for me. –G
Thank you, shopping is extremely tedious. –M
I’m sure you’ll look sexy no matter what. –G
Mycroft didn’t respond, which was probably good since he really needed to get in the shower. And shave. And decide what to wear. Dark jeans, the grey jumper maybe? Sally said I looked good in that with my leather jacket.
It had been a long time since he’d had to get ready for a date. Even longer for a first date. I don’t think I can actually mess this up, but still. He needed to make reservations before he got in the shower. He thought Mycroft would really love this restaurant, and it was just romantic enough to feel like a date without being too formal. He couldn’t wait to see what Mycroft put on.
It was about fucking time he and Mycroft went on a real date. He was so close to falling in love with that man that it was ridiculous. This is it, he thought. Mycroft is the one. I can tell. His scent…we’re perfect for each other. I’m going to want to bond with him. Okay, don’t lie to yourself, Greg, you already want to bond with him. And the first step in that is this date so get in the fucking shower.
Mycroft stood in the entryway for several minutes after Greg left. I am in a relationship with Greg Lestrade. A man I have been drawn to since I met him. A man to whom I will become unbearably attached, am already unbearably attached. Greg’s scent was so beyond perfect. They were a perfect genetic match. He had a brief thought of having children with Greg, but pushed it away. Do not put the cart before the horse, Mycroft.
Forcing away thoughts of a rosy future with a man with whom he had not yet had a date, Mycroft walked into the bedroom. He tried not to look at the bed, but couldn’t help it, and felt a little thrill. Methodically, he went about making said bed and straightening the room. He couldn’t bear to leave it untidy, it went against his very nature. Task complete, he adjourned to the walk-in closet to survey his clothing choices. He had rows of suits, for different weathers, for different occasions, with different fabrics and different patterns. Something casual, something casual. Jeans. Do I have jeans? Good lord, even if I do, how ridiculous would they look? He sorted through his limited selection of casual clothes. Most of them were for blending in in a less civilized area than central London. A quick glance at his phone showed that the weather would not be pleasant in either a very heavy jumper or a polo shirt, and the rough work shirts that fell into the middle ground absolutely would not do. He fired off a text to Greg to see if wearing a dress shirt was appropriate, or if he needed to go shopping. While he was chatting with Greg, he uncovered a wardrobe unicorn, so to speak. Actual jeans, in the flesh. Well, this is unexpected.
Now that he’d found them, he couldn’t just stow them away in the wardrobe without trying them on, his curiosity wouldn’t allow it. He quickly divested himself his pajamas and tugged on the mysterious denim trousers. They were snug, but not tight. He’d obviously had them tailored at some point, they were exactly the correct length. The jeans were a pleasing dark indigo with a narrow leg. He looked down at this legs, but couldn’t get a sense of what they looked like, so he walked into the bathroom to see the full extent of the indignity in the full-length mirror.
Mycroft had expected to be embarrassed by what he saw, but they actually looked quite nice. The jeans made his legs look longer, and his problem belly less noticeable. He turned to see how they looked from the back. Perhaps Greg had a point about his arse. It did look quite shapely. Better than in his work out bottoms or his tailored suits. What do I own that Greg hasn’t seen? Aside from the jeans. He mentally flipped through his catalogue of recent encounters with Greg as he walked to the closet. I don’t think he’s ever seen me in green. I have that green shirt from Mummy that I’ve not yet worn, perhaps that. He wandered back into the closet, then turned his attention from thinking of the shirt to finding it. It was at the end of the green section of shirts (which was slim), relegated to the back because it was a deep emerald rather than a more subdued shade to be worn with brown suits. Shirt selected, he returned to the en suite to view the deep green against his skin and the jeans. I think this look will be pleasing to Greg, despite having only seen me in my more formal attire. Even though it makes my hair look more red. Mycroft rolled his eyes at himself in the mirror. It was a mystery to him why Greg seemed to enjoy the color of what hair he had left. As he had most of his life, he envied Sherlock his glossy, dark curls. Nothing to be done. I’ll have to soldier on and be glad I’ve found a partner who doesn’t despise my looks.
As he washed in the shower, Mycroft ran a critical eye over his body. Freckles. Pudgy stomach. Skinny legs. Spidery fingers. Of course there was the hair. His nose. God, his nose. Thin lips. All things that had been pointed out to him as flaws. And yet, Greg said nothing about any of them. He had looked Mycroft’s body with hunger and desire, as if he was genuinely attracted to him. He’d practically worshipped his body, running his hands and mouth over the pale, freckled skin; kissed his thin lips with every evidence of passion; told him repeatedly how gorgeous he was. There was no doubt in his mind that he would fall in love with Greg, and the idea was terrifying. Love…was dangerous. He’d told Sherlock that caring was not an advantage, and he’d meant it. He’d learned first-hand that emotions clouded the judgement of even the most careful of individuals. Can’t I have this, though? Just a little happiness? He was bargaining with himself, which was ridiculous. He was a grown man and could make a decision. Was this fear holding him back? Or caution protecting him?
“Mycroft, do shut up,” he muttered to himself. “You’re about to go on a date with a terribly handsome man who for some reason adores you. Enjoy it, damn it.”
Mycroft was pacing restlessly in the sitting room, checking his watch far too often, waiting for Greg to arrive. A small, panicked part of his brain was certain that Greg would not come, he would send his regrets via text message and never hear from him again. His rational brain was tracking the time obsessively. Greg had said around six, rather than being precise, so he really needed to stop worrying that he had not yet arrived at five after. He was beginning to grow concerned at seven after, but a knock at the door interrupted him. He practically tripped over his own feet in his effort to answer the door. He quickly whipped it open to see Greg’s smiling face. He smiled back, worries evaporating, and leaving him feeling slightly ridiculous. “Hello.” He stepped back to let Greg walk into the flat.
Greg set his bag on the floor by the door, then immediately embraced Mycroft, sliding his arms around his waist and kissing him softly. He smelled amazing, and Greg couldn’t resist pressing a kiss to his neck, just behind his ear. “Hello.” Greg pulled back a bit reluctantly. “Let me see your normal person clothes,” he teased, stepping back to get a view of the entire package, so to speak. He was floored.
“Mycroft, oh my god.”
Mycroft immediately shifted his posture to one of embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I’ll change, I--”
Greg rushed to stop him, gently putting his hands on Mycroft’s shoulders. “No, that was a good ‘oh my god’ you look like sex on legs. You’re sexy as hell in jeans.” He slid his hands down to take Mycroft’s long, elegant ones in his. “Green is perfect on you. You look gorgeous.” Greg kissed him again, drawing it out a bit. Mycroft being self-conscious was cute, but troubling. Someone, somewhere along the line, and convinced him that there was something wrong with the way he looked, and Greg wanted to kick his arse. “Casual suits you. Now, do I pass muster?” He stepped back and held his arms wide, grinning to make it a joke.
Mycroft cocked an eyebrow at him but made a show of critically examining Greg’s appearance. Dark grey cashmere sweater, v neck, white undershirt, dark jeans with artistic stress patterns, very nice black leather jacket, casual black shoes. “You’ll do.”
Greg laughed. “Gee thanks.”
Mycroft moved close, and took his hand. “I think you look unbearably handsome,” he whispered, before kissing him. “I must admit to you that I am horribly nervous, I haven’t been on a date since I was 22 and I’m not quite sure what to do.”
Greg kissed him, then stepped back. “Well, you’re starting out very well, you’re wearing the right clothes and your cologne is almost illegally sexy. Next step is for you to pick one of your numerous coats or jackets, and then go down to my car. After that, I’ll drive to the restaurant, and I’ll make every person in the place jealous because they don’t have boyfriends as gorgeous as mine.”
Mycroft chuckled. “That seems like rather a lot. Perhaps we should write it down. Especially the part where I’m gorgeous.” He turned to pull the jacket he’d already mentally selected from the closet. “We should also add the part where my boyfriend is devastating and terribly distracting to all of the other patrons.”
Greg laughed as he pulled open the front door. “Flattery will get you everywhere. Let’s go.”
Greg was grinning when he got to the car. He’d completely blindsided Mycroft by snogging him in the lift going down to the carpark. Now he was ushering his blushing boyfriend into the passenger seat, and was going to take him to a lovely little place and hopefully spend a lovely night having lots of lovely sex. He dropped into the driver’s seat and looked at Mycroft.
Mycroft was smiling at him, eyes amused. “You are a ridiculous man. Snogging in the lift, really. There is a security camera in there, you know.”
Greg raised an eyebrow. “And you own the building so you can erase it at your leisure.” He started the car. “I love that you have an underground garage for just my car and yours.”
“It is certainly better than being exposed to the weather when going to and from my flat. And why on earth own a building and then fill it with distasteful neighbors?”
Greg laughed, pulling out of the garage and into traffic. “I’ve certainly had my share of shite neighbors. But I’m kind of enjoying the two girls across the hall, they’re always flirting with me.”
Mycroft could tell that Greg was teasing him, so he played along. “Oh, really?”
Greg started laughing. “Yeah, and then I remind them that I’m old enough to be their father, and they call me Dad for a couple weeks.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes. “How old are they, actually?” He couldn’t really fault Greg for being attracted to young women, and he was extremely good-looking.
Greg looked at him briefly, before looking back at the road. “19 or 20? They’re going to uni. I think their parents were happy that I was a cop, not just some creepy old guy across the hall.” When Mycroft was silent, he took a hand off of the wheel to stroke his thigh. “Seriously, I’m not interested in girls I could have produced. I was just trying to tease you a little. Don’t worry, love, you have no competition.” He heard Mycroft sigh out his nose.
“I know you were teasing me, apologies. Jealousy is irrational, however.” He chuckled. “Besides, I do believe I could take a teenage girl in a fight.”
Greg laughed. “Yeah, something tells me that even with two of them, you’d win.”
“I’m sure you would,” he laughed. Greg turned down the side street that housed the restaurant. For a Saturday night, the parking situation wasn’t too grim. “I think you’re going to like this place.”
Mycroft looked around. The sun hadn’t yet set, and the last golden rays revealed a building façade with which he was familiar. “Greg…have you been here before?” They were parking in front of Le Marguerite. It was a lovely French bistro, but the menu was in French, and the staff exclusively spoke French. Dear god, don’t let him be trying to impress me with haute cuisine, I don’t need to be impressed.
Greg deftly parked the car and set the brake. “Yeah, of course. I wouldn’t take you somewhere I didn’t know you’d like.”
As they got out of the car, Mycroft wondered if Greg was lying to him. He didn’t think Greg would lie to him intentionally, but people did any number of absurd things trying to impress a new lover. He felt a sense of trepidation as they approached the door (which his ridiculous boyfriend held open for him).
Greg walked up to the podium, and the hostess greeted them with a friendly “Bonsoir.”
“Bonsoir, réservation pour Lestrade, S'il vous plaît.”
“Bien sûr, votre table est prête. Suis-moi s'il te plait.”
Mycroft was watching Greg as he followed him through the restaurant. His boyfriend spoke at least some basic French. Mycroft, of course, spoke French fluently, and had since early childhood, but he’d not suspected Greg spoke French.
The hostess seated them at a secluded table and placed the menus on the table, before handing Greg a wine list. “Nous avons plusieurs nouveaux vins au menu, y compris un moscato pétillant qui paire bien la crème brulee.”
“Je vous remercie. Quels rouges recommandez-vous?” Greg knew Mycroft preferred red wine.
“Nous avons une maison Merlot très populaire, et le Pinot Noir 2009 a remporté plusieurs prix en France.”
“Lequel, Mycroft? Je sais que vous avez généralement Merlot, mais le Pinot pourrait être sympa.”
Mycroft quickly shook himself out of the absolute shock of Greg asking him a question about wine in French. “Ah, le Pinot, je pense.”
Greg smiled at him, then at the hostess. “Le Pinot, c'est. Merci.”
“Je serai certain de faire savoir à votre serveur, profitez de votre repas.”
Mycroft just stared as Greg opened the menu. Just stared. How have I known him for 10 years and never learned that he speaks French? And apparently read French just as well, judging from his perusal of the dinner choices.
Eventually Greg noticed that he was being watched, and looked up. “What?”
Mycroft felt himself flushing with embarrassment. “I was not aware that you spoke French.” He watched as Greg’s eyes widened with surprise, followed quickly with a smile.
“How could you not know that I spoke French? You know everything about me, I know you do, you’ve run a 100 different background checks on me. How did you miss the fact that both of my parents grew up in France?” Granted, they’d lived in London for most of their lives, but had spent a lot of their childhoods on the Continent.
Mycroft cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable. “I knew that your parents were French, of course, but I didn’t realize that you spoke the language.”
Greg immediately understood. “You thought I didn’t learn from my parents for a less-than-flattering reason, didn’t you?” He chuckled. “I know I don’t come across as refined enough, or smart enough, to speak French fluently.”
Mycroft continued to look embarrassed, but had to disagree. “Refined, maybe, but intelligent? You always appear both intelligent and educated. My apologies for underestimating you.”
Greg smiled again and put his hand on the table, palm up. “Don’t be embarrassed. I’m not bothered.”
Mycroft hesitantly placed his hand in Greg’s, nervous about the public display of affection, but decided they were in a secluded enough area that no one would notice. “Alright.” He smiled when Greg squeezed his hand. “What do you recommend? I’ve not been here in several years.”
Greg didn’t look up from the menu, but gave his hand another squeeze. “Everything is amazing, really. I’m going to have to veto the cheese plate and escargot, purely for breath purposes. As much as I love both, strong cheese and garlic make kissing less pleasant.”
Mycroft laughed at the unexpected explanation. “Understood.” He took his hand back to turn the pages in the menu.
While Mycroft pondered the choices, the waiter arrived at the table, wine in hand. “Bonsoir, messieurs, je m'appelle Samuel.” He opened the bottle and poured a bit for Greg to test. Normally, he was vetting the wine, it was quite nice to see Greg doing so. He expressed his pleasure, and wine was poured for both.
“Est-ce que le chef a quelque chose en particulier ce soir?” Greg asked in that surprisingly flawless French.
Mycroft watched as Samuel nodded. “Oui, bien sûr, un coq au vin avec des pommes de terre rôties et des champignons sautés, servi dans un pot pour deux.” He looked across the table at Greg, silently showing his approval.
Greg nodded to the waiter. “Ça a l'air génial.” He turned back to Mycroft and smiled. Mycroft understood. Romantic.
Samuel departed, returning with crusty bread and butter, before leaving them alone again. Greg smiled across the table while he buttered a slice of fresh bread. “When I was growing up and we visited my grandparents, my dad’s mom would make coq au vin with an actual coq. Somehow she always had a rooster whose time had come when we were visiting.”
Mycroft chuckled softly. “Too often in London it’s made with hen’s thighs rather than the called-for bird.”
Just as they had for years, Greg and Mycroft talked and laughed and complained in turns while enjoying an exquisite meal. In many ways, it was like every other meal they’d shared over the last several years, which allowed Mycroft to relax somewhat. They enjoyed the ridiculously romantic main dish, finished the bottle of wine, and shared a crème brulee, which was also ridiculously romantic and Mycroft was fairly certain he was ruined for dates for life after this one. Eventually he found himself just staring at Greg across the table, warm from the emotions and the wine, and reluctant to let it end.
Greg smiled at Mycroft. “Shall we?” He stood and held out a hand.
Mycroft took his hand as he stood, and after donning their coats, he allowed Greg to reclaim his hand to lead him out of the restaurant. He’d never actually held hands with someone in a public place. It was terrifying. But wonderful.
They reached the car, then without discussion, drove back to Mycroft’s flat. It was borderline awkward, and Greg reached over to rest a hand on Mycroft’s knee. “Are you still nervous? Because that was an A+ date, full marks.”
Mycroft laughed, comfortable again. “Thank you, I did my best.” He paused for a moment. “That was magical, Greg. Thank you.” He spoke softly, warmth and wonder in each word.
Greg squeezed his knee. “I’m glad you enjoyed it, I’ve wanted to take you there for ages, but there was no way to disguise it as a non-date.”
Impulsively, Mycroft took Greg’s hand and brought it to his lips. “It was perfect.”
This time, it was Mycroft’s turn to surprise Greg, sliding his arms around his boyfriend’s neck and kissing him warmly, pressing him against the wall of the lift. Greg returned the kiss enthusiastically, pulling Mycroft tight against him as they slowly climbed the 12 floors to Mycroft’s flat. They stumbled out of the lift, and spent a steamy moment against the wall before they could separate long enough for Mycroft to enter the code to open the door. Inside, Mycroft was extremely grateful that he had neglected to turn out the lights before leaving. He shut the door by pushing Greg against it, resuming the desperate, needy kiss that had been rudely interrupted by entering the flat. When Greg broke the kiss with a gasp, Mycroft took the opportunity to drag his lips down his neck, biting lightly just above the collar of his jumper. He heard Greg moan, and his head thump against the door. Encouraged, he increased the pressure of his teeth on the warm skin, and was rewarded with goosebumps, just has when he had bitten Greg earlier. I would not have guessed he enjoyed biting so much, he mused. He was sensing that, despite his innate alpha dominance, Greg enjoyed submitting to his partner, at least some of the time. Another way in which we complement each other. He pulled back and met Greg’s heavy-lidded eyes. It took Greg a moment to speak.
“God, I need you to fuck me,” Greg gasped out.
Mycroft felt a flare of arousal, the like of which he’d never felt before. It could almost be described as predatory. He found that he really wanted to take Greg to bed, and take him. It was an act he’d never, once, considered possible, but he couldn’t deny just how thrilling it was to contemplate it. “I think I would very much enjoy that.”
He pulled Greg through the sitting room but couldn’t make it to the bedroom without kissing him again, and soon had him pressed against the wall in the hallway. He pushed Greg’s jacket off of his shoulders, then pulled it off of his arms with perhaps a bit more force than necessary. Mycroft had his hands under his jumper, but Greg managed to moan “bedroom” before he could pull it over his head. With a noise of impatience, he dragged Greg to the bedroom by his hand, leaving the leather jacket on the floor in the hall.
Once in the room, Greg found himself back in Mycroft’s arms, with demanding lips pressed to his. It was amazing. He’d been craving this. He’d been faithful to Kristen, and had never once regretted marrying her, but he couldn’t deny that he’d missed the way he felt when another man took control like this. And he’d wanted it with Mycroft for absolute ages. He pulled his head back so he could breathe, and Mycroft immediately took the opportunity to shove his vest and jumper up to his shoulders. Greg chuckled and pulled them both off over his head.
Mycroft raked his eyes over Greg’s toned chest. He’d started working out to alleviate stress during his divorce, and it had paid off in dividends in Mycroft’s opinion. He placed his hands on Greg’s warm shoulders, then moved down his arms. “You’re gorgeous,” he whispered. He leaned close to kiss from his shoulder to just below his ear, a spot that made Greg weak in the knees. “And you’re mine.”
Greg dropped his head back and moaned. “Yours,” he agreed.
Mycroft quickly returned to stripping Greg bare, rapidly removing his belt and unfastening his jeans. “Take off your shoes,” he murmured, and Greg toed them off before Mycroft slid his hands inside his pants, pushing the garments down to expose his hard cock. “You want this,” Mycroft whispered, more to reassure himself than to draw an answer from Greg.
“God yes,” he whispered.
Mycroft was torn between drawing this out further, and ripping Greg’s clothes off and throwing him on the bed. Another glance at Greg’s face, so desperately aroused, answered that question. “Take off the rest of your clothes, and lie on the bed.”
He began unbuttoning his shirt as he watched Greg comply. He deliberately made the process of taking his jeans and pants off more arousing than necessary, and somehow even watching him remove his socks was sexy. Greg caught him staring and smirked before pulling that horrid duvet off the bed and turning down the sheets. Mycroft resumed undressing himself, suddenly much more eager to be naked when presented with a very naked Greg reclining against his pillows. He tossed his clothes on the floor (twice in as many days, what was becoming of him?) before climbing onto the bed, and claiming Greg’s lips in a heated kiss.
Greg hummed into the kiss when he felt all of Mycroft’s warm skin against his, and he wrapped his arms around him. When Mycroft broke the kiss, he whispered, “Watching you strip with that look on your face was so fucking hot.”
Mycroft chuckled. “Not my intention, but I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He kissed Greg again. “I must confess, though, that I’m not quite sure how to proceed.”
Greg ran a hand up Mycroft’s back, then cupped his cheek. “It’s okay. You know what to do first, though, you have to get me ready.”
Mycroft felt himself flush. “Of course.” He quickly pulled out the bottle of lubricant that he’d replaced in the drawer when he’d been horrified to find it on the nightstand. “I don’t want you hurt you, it has to have been quite a long time since you’ve done this.” He poured some of the liquid into his palm.
“With another person, yeah, but not too long since I’ve done it.” At Mycroft’s look of confusion, Greg clarified, “I have toy.”
Mycroft was too overwhelmed with the arousing mental image of Greg penetrating himself with a silicone phallus to be embarrassed by not knowing what he’d meant. Greg must have seen that, and chuckled.
“Like that?” He was smiling.
“I find the thought unbearably arousing.”
“Wanna watch me sometime?” Greg said half genuinely, half with teasing mischief. He watched a shudder pass over Mycroft’s tall frame as he closed his eyes.
“God, yes,” he whispered.
Greg groaned. He imagined Mycroft watching him masturbate with a dildo, and all the noises he could probably pull out of the other man. Oh yes, this is going to happen. “That sounds unbelievably hot.” He spread his legs a little wider to silently remind Mycroft what he was doing. “So you probably can’t hurt me with your fingers.”
Mycroft forced himself to focus on the task at hand. “Alright. Tell me if it’s uncomfortable, or if I should do something differently.” He made sure his fingers were sufficiently coated, and pressed one gently at Greg’s entrance. You know it feels good, and he’s going to like it, stop being a ninny. He slowly eased inside, and was rewarded with a sound of pleasure from his lover. He worked just the one finger for a bit, ensuring that there was enough lubricant, before adding a second. Greg moaned louder this time, and began to stroke himself. Mycroft appreciated the positive feedback, and tried to mimic the things that he enjoyed. Despite a lack of medical degree, he was very skilled in anatomy, and located Greg’s prostate fairly easily, earning a loud shout followed by incoherent begging.
He was pressing a third finger in when Greg propped himself up to stop him. “I’m going to come before you even get in me. I need your cock. Now.”
Mycroft searched his face and found only desire. “If you’re sure.”
Greg nodded. “I’ll be on top at first so you can get used to how it feels.”
Mycroft knew he had a blank look on his face when Greg smiled and chuckled. “Lie on your back, and I’ll ride you. Then you can have control back.”
Feeling like an idiot but saying nothing, Mycroft quickly moved beside Greg and stretched out. He watched as Greg squeezed lubricant into his palm, no doubt to apply to his cock. God I hope my performance doesn’t permanently put him off of having sex with me.
Greg looked up from getting lube, and saw the look of almost fear on his boyfriend’s face. “Mycroft, relax, there’s no way you can mess this up, and you’re not being graded on form or anything. And I can guarantee I’m going to like it.” Mycroft wasn’t even all the way hard anymore. Greg lay down beside him and pulled him into a kiss before he began stroking him. It’s so odd that he’s so nervous about this, Greg thought. He can’t have ever had the chance to be dominant in sex before. It was fucking criminal, because Mycroft was so sexy when he was in charge. He deepened the kiss, but didn’t speed up his strokes. As the kiss got more frantic, Mycroft began to whimper, and finally had to pull away.
“You’re driving me mad.” He covered Greg’s hand with his own. “I need to be inside you.”
Greg grinned. “Thought you’d never ask.” He sat up, then straddled Mycroft. “Here, put your hands on my hips,” he instructed. When Mycroft did as he asked, he carefully positioned himself, and slowly slid down onto Mycroft’s cock.
Mycroft found that he could not catalogue everything he was experiencing at once. The unbelievable feeling of Greg’s tight body around his cock; the way his skin, muscles, and pelvic bones felt under his gripping fingers; the look on Greg’s face, a cross between bliss and relief; the mingled sounds of their pleasure filling the bedroom. Any fear he’d had evaporated. It was amazing.
When Greg settled his weight on Mycroft’s hips, he took a moment to adjust. No pain, Mycroft had prepped him really well, just the weirdness of having something inside of him. He looked down at Mycroft’s closed eyes. “You okay?”
It seemed to take a lot of effort for Mycroft to open his eyes. “I think I want you to move.”
Part of Greg wanted to be flippant and cheeky, but he knew that this wasn’t the right time for that. Instead he bent down and kissed Mycroft softly. “If I do something that you don’t like, tell me.” He pulled back up, and, with the headboard for balance, began to move slowly.
Mycroft wasn’t sure that the sound that left his throat had ever been made before. The feeling of Greg’s hot, slick, body surrounding his cock was unbelievable, and watching Greg’s handsome face change from a look of concentration to pleasure was beautiful to behold. He found himself wanting Greg to move more quickly, and squeezed his hips. “I—I need—more,” he managed to get out, one small part of his brain appalled by his lack of eloquence.
Greg began to move faster, and used the headboard for leverage for more force. “I want to feel you on top of me.” He continued moving. “Let’s switch places.”
Mycroft looked up at him as Greg slowed. “In porn they can always roll over and keep fucking, but in my experience that never works.” He carefully moved to Mycroft’s side, and tugged him over. “Just like before, but now you can do the work,” he joked.
Mycroft moved between Greg’s spread legs, and pushed back in. Greg moaned. It took a few moments of experimentation to learn how to move, but soon he was slowly, gently, thrusting into Greg’s willing body. It was still amazing him that his alpha boyfriend had not only asked for this, but had begged. Had wanted him to be in control, and to fuck him. Not another alpha, or even a beta, but an omega. His omega.
Feeling rather proprietary of Greg, Mycroft began to move faster, and as a result, harder. Greg moaned again. “God, Mycroft, harder,” he panted out.
Mycroft leaned down to give Greg a hard kiss. “Beg.”
Greg’s eyes flew open. “What?”
Mycroft slowed his movements. “I said, beg.”
Greg’s eyes practically rolled up in his head. “Tell me what you want, anything.”
Mycroft rested his body atop Greg’s, still moving, but knowing his abdominal muscles weren’t going to be interested in doing that for long. He dragged his teeth down his lover’s neck, and slowly bit down on his shoulder. Greg was making some incomprehensible noise, but when he slid his fingers into his hair and pulled, he shouted and wrapped his legs around Mycroft’s waist, and he felt Greg’s short fingernails on his back. “Oh god, consider this begging, god I need you to fuck me. Hard.”
With another hard kiss, Mycroft pulled out of his embrace and began thrusting harder and faster than before. It felt glorious and he didn’t know how long he could last. Greg looked absolutely gorgeous, lips red and swollen, the marks on his neck from Mycroft’s teeth, and the vivid red bite on his shoulder perfectly complimenting the look on his face that was hovering between pleasure and agony. And he was documenting every response, every twitch, every tiny noise and microexpression to exploit later for their mutual benefit.
Greg just needed a little push to go over the edge. He moved a bit, and Mycroft immediately understood, and changed his angle, and there—“Yes, there, like that” and the rest was lost in an exultant yell as he came.
Mycroft was caught off guard by the suddenness of Greg’s orgasm, but relieved. He was so close. He continued for a moment before dissolving into bliss himself, and collapsing to Greg’s chest.
Greg wasn’t sure how long he was in the clouds, but when he started to become aware of the world again, he was delighted to find that Mycroft was stretched out on top of him, panting. He embraced him, and kissed the top of his head. He felt Mycroft stir, and loosened his arms just enough for him to prop himself up on his elbows. “Welcome back,” he murmured with a fond smile. “You okay?”
Mycroft couldn’t control the soppy smile that he was sure was on his face. “Quite.” He was dying to just blurt out question of his performance, but restrained himself. He stretched up to kiss Greg instead. “Are you alright?”
Greg tightened his arms around Mycroft, then ran his hands up and down his back. “More than alright. That was un-fucking-believable.”
Mycroft gave him a somewhat-bashful smile. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” He paused for a moment, thinking. “You…came, just from me fucking you. I didn’t even touch your cock.” It still sounded vulgar coming from his mouth.
Greg nodded, grinning. “I can’t remember the last time that happened. Literally. I know I’ve come from being fucked before, but I can’t remember the circumstances. Quite the accomplishment.”
A stupid, primitive part of him felt absurdly proud of his sexual prowess, but his rational brain kept it from emerging into chest-beating and territory-marking. In reality, he knew it was a combination of Greg having been deprived of the sensory stimuli that he was experiencing and luck, with a dash of his accelerated learning curve allowing him to adjust to his lover’s needs. Still. “I’d like to pretend I’m not ridiculously thrilled, but I’m ridiculously thrilled.”
Greg laughed and lifted his head for another kiss. “You should be.”
They just lay together for a time, enjoying the sense of closeness and intimacy. I’ve missed being touched, Greg realized. He rubbed Mycroft’s back. He could only assume that Mycroft felt the same way. And the way Mycroft was so cold and distant with others, he’d probably been starved for the attention. I’m never going to let him feel that way again.
Eventually Mycroft stirred, kissing Greg’s clavicle before moving. “I feel a strong need to clean up.”
Greg stretched. “Same. Let me go get my overnight bag, wanna start the shower?”
Mycroft was standing beside the bed with the vaguely concerned look that Greg privately called the “what kind of idiot are you” look. “You’re going to walk into the sitting room naked?”
Greg laughed. “I would be perfectly comfortable walking through your flat naked, yes. But now that I’m out of bed I’m cold, so I’m going to get in the shower, then walk through the flat naked.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes and headed to the bathroom. “Have you no sense of propriety?” he called in a mock-severe tone.
Greg laughed and followed him. “Absolutely none.”
After a lovely shared shower, Greg headed into the sitting room to get his bag, and picked up his jacket from the floor in the hall. He’d actually left the towel around his waist without thinking about it, so wasn’t technically naked, but he was sure Mycroft would still be scandalized. He fished around in his jacket pocket for his mobile to see if he’d missed anything, and he had a text from John.
Sherlock is being a shit, wanna meet at the pub down from Baker St station? -JW
It had come a couple hours earlier, but his phone had been on silent for that very reason. He hadn’t wanted any texts or calls to interrupt his date with Mycroft. He figured it wouldn’t hurt to text back now, though.
Sorry mate, I had a date tonight. Still on it, actually. –G
John replied immediately, which was rare.
Good, it’s time you moved on. Anyone I know? –JW
Greg considered his answer. He wasn’t going to lie, he was just going to be vague.
Yes, but we’re not at the telling other people stage yet. –G
Is it serious? Just looking out for you. –JW
It’s been serious for a long time, Greg thought. Yeah, it’s serious. –G
Then why are you texting me instead of getting off? –JW
Greg laughed out loud. Just did that, mate, found my phone on the floor in the hall. –G
I did not need to know that, but congratulations. –JW
He was just fucking with John at this point. I need to put on something other than a towel, I’m cold. –G
Fuck you very much, Greg. Rub it in. –JW
“What are you laughing about?” Mycroft called from the bathroom.
“Texting John.” Talk later, yah? I’ll give you the gory details. –G
Yeah, yeah, go get laid. Piss off. –JW
He put the phone on the nightstand and opened his bag, pulling out a pair of his own pants and putting them on. He didn’t feel it necessary to sleep in anything else, but wasn’t surprised when Mycroft came around the bed to kiss him wearing pajama bottoms and a loose t shirt. He smelled minty and vaguely perfumy. “My incredible powers of deduction tell me that you brushed your teeth, but it also smells like you put on makeup.”
Mycroft laughed softly. “I have very dry skin, it’s a moisturizer. The scent fades very quickly.”
Greg put his arms around Mycroft’s neck and kissed him. “I have a high-maintenance boyfriend,” he teased before kissing him again. “I love kissing you.” He kissed the tip of Mycroft’s nose before pulling away.
“I suppose I could be termed ‘high-maintenance’ by some,” Mycroft replied with a haughty tone as he walked back around the bed. “If moisturizing my skin to maintain my youthful glow earns me the title.”
Greg laughed as he crawled into bed. “No, it’s the lotion on top of the manicures and pedicures.”
Mycroft pulled back the blankets on his side of the bed and climbed in, then immediately rubbed his smooth feet on Greg’s legs. “You’re reaping the benefits right now, I could have rough, scaly feet.”
He’d had no idea that Mycroft could be so silly, but was loving it. “Are you implying that I have rough, scaly feet?” Greg was trying to unobtrusively move low enough under the blanket to tickle Mycroft’s soft feet.
Mycroft leveled that cold, narrow-eyed glare at him. “If you think that pitiful attempt at distraction will allow you to gain an advantage and tickle my feet, you are sorely mistaken.”
“All bets are off, then,” he replied, and tossed the blanket back to brazenly attack Mycroft’s feet. He caught him off guard, and managed to elicit some amazing shrieks before Mycroft turned the tables by spreading his hand to pinch Greg’s entire thigh just above his knee, which led to Greg screaming and retreating to his side of the bed. “Truce?”
Mycroft still looked suspicious, but nodded. “Truce. If you violate this armistice, there will be consequences.”
“Okay, okay, I won’t tickle you again. Tonight.” He was still a little giggly. “What did you do to make my entire fucking leg tickle?”
Mycroft chuckled darkly. “In my line of work, we have ways of making people cooperate.” The seriousness was completely lost when he dissolved into giggles. “I used to do that to Sherlock when he’d fall asleep on long car trips when we were children.”
Greg started laughing again. “You’re a dick.” He moved to the center of the bed, and Mycroft straightened the blankets before snuggling into his chest. “I’m going to do that to my little brother at Christmas.”
Mycroft burst out laughing. “I can testify that it’s a very effective way of annoying younger siblings.”
“Bonsoir, réservation pour Lestrade, S'il vous plaît.” Good evening, reservation for Lestrade, please.
“Bien sûr, votre table est prête. Suis-moi s'il te plait.” Of course, your table is ready. Follow me.
“Nous avons plusieurs nouveaux vins au menu, y compris un moscato pétillant qui paire bien la crème brulee.” We have several new wines on the menu, including a sparkling Moscato that pairs well with the creme brulee.
“Je vous remercie. Quels rouges recommandez-vous?” Thank you. Which reds do you recommend?
Nous avons une maison Merlot très populaire, et le Pinot Noir 2009 a remporté plusieurs prix en France.” The house Merlot is very popular, and the 2009 Pinot Noir has won several awards in France.
“Lequel, Mycroft? Je sais que vous avez généralement Merlot, mais le Pinot pourrait être sympa.” Which one, Mycroft? I know you usually drink Merlot, but the Pinot might be nice.
“Ah, le Pinot, je pense.” Ah, the Pinot, I think.
“Le Pinot, c'est. Merci.” The Pinot it is. Thanks.
“Je serai certain de faire savoir à votre serveur, profitez de votre repas.” I'll be sure to let your server know, enjoy your meal.
“Bonsoir, messieurs, je m'appelle Samuel.” Good evening, gentlemen, my name is Samuel.
“Est-ce que le chef a quelque chose en particulier ce soir?” Does the chef have anything on special tonight?
“Oui, bien sûr, un coq au vin avec des pommes de terre rôties et des champignons sautés, servi dans un pot pour deux.” Of course, a coq au vin (chicken in wine) with roasted potatoes and sauteed mushrooms, served in a pot for two.
“Ça a l'air génial.” That sounds great.
Sunday was a lazy day. Just as the day before, Mycroft delayed having any kind of kissing until after tooth-brushing, which suited Greg perfectly. Neither of them enjoyed having morning sex. Greg was perfectly happy to go back to bed for snuggling and snogging, to which Mycroft definitely thought he could become accustomed. Eventually, hunger won out over intimacy.
“I can make breakfast today, love,” Greg offered, which Mycroft thought was an excellent idea.
They adjourned to the kitchen. Greg knew where everything was. He loved Mycroft’s huge kitchen and top-of-the-line gas range. His kitchen was nice, but Mycroft’s was amazing.
Mycroft busied himself preparing tea and coffee. “What are you making?”
Greg looked over his shoulder from his perusal of the pantry. “French toast.”
“I’ve not had French toast in years.”
Greg grinned as he assembled all of the ingredients on the counter. “I make excellent French toast.”
“I’m going to be spoiled by these lovely breakfasts, most days I have tea and toast.”
Greg laughed. “I usually just have coffee, even on the weekends. I consider the milk and sugar all the sustenance I need.”
“You drink entirely too much coffee.”
Greg didn’t turn, as he was setting the battered bread in the skillet. “It’s part of being a cop. Sometimes I have a donut or cereal.”
Mycroft shuddered. “Also terrible for you.”
Mycroft retrieved his Canadian maple syrup from the pantry. “I don’t know what you usually put on your French toast, but this is marvelous.”
“Usually butter and brown sugar, but maple syrup sounds great.”
Greg plated the French toast like he was on a cooking show, arranging the toast triangles and dusting them with powdered sugar. He even sliced two strawberries for decoration before walking over to the breakfast bar. “For you, my dear.”
Mycroft smiled with delight. “This is lovely, thank you.”
Greg’s French toast was delectable, especially with the syrup. After a thoroughly lovely breakfast and shared kitchen tidying, they lounged on the sofa with tea and coffee.
“Would you like to go out today?” Mycroft asked with a tip of his head. “It’s surprisingly warm, and I would enjoy spending some time out of doors, since I seldom have the opportunity.”
“I’d like that.” Greg smiled. “September isn’t usually this nice, we should take advantage of it.”
“Perhaps I could purchase some clothes that suit your date dress code,” Mycroft teased.
Greg laughed. “Don’t get me wrong, your suits are sexy. I love seeing you in them. But your arse looked so fucking good in your jeans, and that shirt was just great. Colors suit you.”
Mycroft could feel himself blushing. “Thank you.” It surprised him every time Greg complimented him.
Greg set his coffee mug on the table, and moved to cuddle into Mycroft’s side, resting his head on his shoulder. Mycroft immediately accommodated him. “I’m so ridiculously attracted to you that during some of our meetings about your brother I could hardly focus on what you were saying. There were a couple times that you showed up at my crime scenes and were a total prick, but it was so sexy I couldn’t decide if I wanted to punch you or snog you senseless.”
Mycroft’s eyes went wide. “Really?” He’d had no idea.
“You couldn’t tell?”
“No, I didn’t notice. Perhaps because I was working so hard to convince myself that you could never want me as I wanted you.” He leaned his head to rest against Greg’s. “I was attracted to you immediately upon meeting you. You were so very handsome, and your smile was so genuine, I was helpless to resist fantasizing about you.” He chuckled. “I pined after you like a teen girl with a film star.”
Greg chuckled, too. “You hid it well, until after I got divorced.” He kissed Mycroft’s shoulder. When I started falling in love with you.
Mycroft ghosted a kiss across Greg’s hair. “It was so hard to keep you at arm’s length. I kept trying to put distance between us, but I wanted to be with you so very much.” Because I was falling in love with you.
Greg sat up enough to plant a firm kiss on Mycroft’s lips. “Well, now we don’t have any reason to avoid each other or hide anything, and I don’t have any reason to punch you, so I suggest we put on public-appropriate clothing and go terrorize a shop or two, and perhaps stroll through one of London’s lovely parks.”
In the end, Mycroft purchased three casual button-up shirts in colors that Greg jokingly approved. He was very fussy about fabric texture and seams, so it was a challenge to find ready-to-wear shirts. In the end, he’d chosen one in a deep blue that Greg said complimented his eyes, a shirt precisely the color of a good Merlot, and one in slate grey that Greg had convinced him to try and he had been surprised by liking. Greg had tried to convince him to buy another pair of jeans, but he had to draw the line somewhere. Secretly, he was immensely flattered by Greg’s appreciation of his appearance in them, and had wanted to purchase another pair, but stores that sold denim catered to a clientele that made him feel incredibly old and stodgy.
After lunch at a quiet spot, Mycroft suggested they walk through Kensington Gardens. As they strolled in the crisp, autumn sunshine, Mycroft pointed out a townhouse on a quiet street adjacent to the park. “That’s mine.”
Greg looked at him with wide eyes. “Seriously?”
Mycroft chuckled. “Yes, seriously. I’ve been staying at my current flat for just over five years, previously I was living here. I have three other residences in London, as well.”
“Why did you move over to the high rise? This house is beautiful.”
“I agree, it is beautiful, and I’d like to move back here at a later date. At the time, though, increased security was required and it was far easier to coordinate at the other flat.”
Greg had a tantalizing vision of living in the townhouse with Mycroft and having a family. He brushed it away. “Where are the other three houses?”
“Other desirable neighborhoods. When I’m fearful that I’ve been followed, or need to avoid someone who I suspect knows where I live, I stay in one of them.”
“I know you have connections for real-estate, the flat you found for me is amazing, I love it.”
Mycroft nodded. “I have to admit that part of my success in finding you that flat was Andrea knowing the interior designer for the building.”
Greg chuckled. “That’s using your resources wisely.” He tentatively touched Mycroft’s hand, to see if he’d take it. Soon they were walking hand in hand. “Did she ever tell you that the night you had her kidnap John he made a pass at her?”
Mycroft laughed. “No, she did not.”
“Yeah, he told me about it one time. She told him her name was Anthea, and admitted it was a fake name, and had to almost push him out of the car at 221B.”
“Good lord, John, how unbelievably tacky.”
Greg laughed for a moment at John’s expense, before sobering. “John seems to be looking for a relationship all of the time. He’s not bad looking and can be really charming, but he sets himself up for failure because he’s so desperate for affection. Sex plays a role in it, yah, but I don’t think he realizes that what he thinks he wants isn’t want he needs.”
Mycroft turned to look at Greg. “What is it that you think he needs?”
Greg gave him a wry look. “He needs to admit that he’s in love with Sherlock, and that THAT is the affection he’s craving, and that boring, safe, pretty girls are not going to satisfy him in the long run.”
Mycroft stopped walking and just looked at him. “You are quite perceptive. One might argue that you deduced that.”
Greg laughed. “Maybe I should be a detective.”
After shopping for supplies to make dinner, Greg and Mycroft returned to the flat, both a bit giddy from holding hands as they had walked together. They’d kissed in the lift again, and shared casual, gentle touches as they stowed the groceries in the kitchen. Not surprisingly, Mycroft made tea, and Greg teased him about drinking too much. Greg tugged Mycroft over to the sofa, and pulled him in for a kiss. It stayed slow and gentle and loving until Mycroft pulled away.
“I would very much like to spend more time in your arms.”
Greg smiled. “I would really love to feel your skin against mine.”
They twined their fingers together and walked to the bedroom, where they resumed their kiss. Greg slowly undressed Mycroft, peeling off his layers, bestowing soft kisses and caresses as he revealed his fair skin. He absolutely ached to tell Mycroft that he loved him, the emotion bubbling up from inside, fully formed and filling him with warmth. If I can’t tell him, I can show him, he thought. Show him how much he means to me.
Then it was Mycroft’s turn, and he undressed Greg with a reverence usually reserved for works of art. Greg’s skin was far darker than his own, and he wondered at the ancestry that had led to his dusky skin and dark hair. He pushed away thoughts of a child with Greg’s hair and eyes in his arms.
Both bare, they turned down the bed and settled against each other, lips meeting in a soft kiss. Greg ran his hands over Mycroft as if he was memorizing the lines of his body and the texture of his skin. He followed his hands with his lips, placing open-mouthed kisses on his long legs and slender arms, his chest and belly, his neck and shoulders. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered before pressing his lips to Mycroft’s.
Mycroft dragged his nails lightly across Greg’s back, over his shoulders, and cupped his cheek with one hand. “No one has ever made me feel so,” he whispered. “You’re a wonder to me.” He kissed Greg, feeling overwhelmed by the emotions that where flowing through his veins. He pushed Greg’s shoulder and they rolled together, lying on their sides. Mycroft smoothed his hand down his chest and over his hip. They were both hard, and he wrapped his hand around Greg’s length. Greg mimicked his action, and grasping Mycroft and stroking slowly.
Their lips met again in a tender kiss. They gradually moved against each other more quickly, and Greg broke the kiss with a soft sound of pleasure. He was bucking his hips, unable to control his movements. “So good, love,” he whimpered out. He lost his rhythm on Mycroft’s cock, moving his hips faster, then coming over Mycroft’s hand. He panted for a moment before kissing Mycroft. “Your turn,” he whispered against his lips, resuming his slow strokes, and kissing him sweetly.
Soon low moans were coming from Mycroft’s chest as he moved his hips quickly into Greg’s hand. Greg was whispering to him, telling him how sexy he looked, encouraging him to let go, and Mycroft came with Greg’s name on his lips. He heard Greg say something, and felt him get out of the bed, but couldn’t comprehend his intentions. Soon he returned with a warm, wet flannel and cleaned them both, before returning to the soft blankets and curling into Mycroft’s side.
They dozed for a time before hunger roused Greg. He woke Mycroft with soft kisses to his shoulder and neck. “Love, wake up. We need to get out of bed and make dinner, or we’re both going to wake up at 1am starving.”
Mycroft stretched and smiled. “I’ve not taken a nap in ages.”
They got lost kissing again, but finally Mycroft pulled away with a chuckle. “We can’t get distracted, you know where that will lead.”
Greg planted a last, quick kiss on Mycroft’s lips. “Yes. Dinner. Now.”
Redressed, they worked together to prepare pasta and salad, moving together as if they’d been doing it for years. “How are we not running into each other? We’ve never cooked together before.”
Mycroft laughed. “I’m simply staying out of your way. It’s my keen observational skills.”
They lingered over a glass of wine, both feeling the dread of Greg’s inevitable departure. Eventually they cleared the table and cleaned up the mess in the kitchen.
“I fear that you are about to leave me,” Mycroft intoned dramatically, drawing a laugh from Greg as he rinsed the dishes.
“Please don’t swoon, I promise to see you again as soon as I can.” He felt Mycroft slide his arms around his waist and kiss his neck. “I know we’re both dedicated to our jobs and all, but I think we can manage to see each other before you reach the swooning stage.”
Mycroft tightened his arms around Greg. “I’m often very tired after work, and come home late, but I’m sure we’ll have a chance to meet during the week, for dinner or tea.”
Greg leaned into Mycroft. “I’m on call next weekend since it’s the first of the month, but we can see each other between murders.”
Mycroft laughed and stepped back. “I’ll just hope for a murder- and war-free weekend.”
Leaving Mycroft’s flat was terrible. They kissed at the door, a “see you later” kiss, and Greg left, even though he really wanted to stay, maybe forever.
Just as he had Saturday afternoon, Mycroft stood at the door for a short while, lost in thought. I have never had such an enjoyable weekend in my adult life, he mused. He was happy, actually happy. It was a heady experience.
He’d prepared for bed and settled into the blankets (but not the duvet), when he received a text.
Thank you for the best weekend I’ve ever had. Can’t wait to see you again. Sleep well. – G
Mycroft knew he was wearing a ridiculous smile and couldn’t make his face return to normal.
I echo your sentiment. I’ve never been so happy, and you are entirely to blame. – MH
Greg’s response was a little yellow face with pursed lips and a heart. “Blowing a kiss, perhaps?” He tapped the previously unused smile on his keyboard, bringing up the array of little yellow faces and symbols. He selected a red heart, and sent it in reply. I’m using emojis, what has he done to me?
He’s made you feel, and act, like a teenager.
Mycroft went to sleep with a smile on his face.
When they auctioned off series 1 scripts, pictures immediately ended up on tumblr, where we learned that Anthea's real name was Andrea.
Greg woke up when his alarm went off at 5:30 with a miserable groan. He always set three alarms; one for the gym, which he managed to get up for around three times a week; one an hour later to go for a run, which happened more often than the gym; and one for actually getting to work on time. He was trying to decide if getting up was going to happen when his phone chimed with a text.
No need to visit the gym this morning, I’m sure you burned plenty of calories this weekend. – MH
Greg chuckled. He was vaguely sore all over. He tapped out a quick reply.
Do I need to go for a run? –G
No, indulge yourself, sleep in until 7:00. – MH
Greg smiled. He wondered if early morning banter with Mycroft would become a thing.
You’re the best boyfriend ever. – G
I shall endeavor to be so. Go back to sleep. – MH
When Greg did get up, he was out the door in record time with a spring in his step. He was early enough to grab coffee rather than just drinking the nasty stuff at the Yard. The weather had changed overnight and it was cloudy and gusty. A swirl of dead leaves followed him into the building. Sally Donovan couldn’t help but notice his good mood as he cruised through the desks to his office--she stuck her head in as he was booting up his computer. There was already a stack of files waiting for him, he noticed.
“Good weekend?” she asked, somehow making the innocuous question cheeky.
Greg couldn’t resist grinning at her. “I’m not sure how it could have been better.”
She gave him that look that was both shrewd and sassy. “You got laid.”
“You should be a detective. Have you thought about that line of work?”
“Ha ha, you’re funny. I seem to remember a certain DCI getting teary-eyed about my promotion.”
Greg made a show of logging into his computer. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“So tell me about her, are you dating or was it just a shag?” She was sitting down in the chair across from his desk.
Greg gave her a mock-stern look. “That would be incredibly unprofessional to discuss.”
“Right, because that’s always your top concern.”
Greg pulled up his email and was distressed by how many had rolled in over the weekend. “Shouldn’t you be investigating crimes?”
“I am, the crime of you not telling me about her.”
Sally rolled her eyes. “Okay, him.”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. Not talking.”
“Seriously?” Sally looked incredulous.
Greg sighed, dropping his mischievous demeanor. “In all seriousness, Sally, we just started seeing each other and he’s a really private person. I’m just respecting his privacy. When we’re ready to tell people, you’ll be the first to know.”
“It’s already serious, then?” She looked genuinely concerned.
Greg thought about how much he loved Mycroft. “It’s been serious a long time.”
“Just let him know that if he breaks your heart, I know how to cover up a murder.”
Greg grinned. “I’ll relay the message.”
Mycroft couldn’t maintain his focus with the rigorous attention that he normally applied. At least once an hour, his eyes strayed to his mobile. Greg had not texted him since their brief conversation at 5:30. Granted, it was only 9:27, but he still wished Greg would contact him. He did not want to intrude on his boyfriend’s work or bother him in any way, but greatly wished to talk to him. He is already effecting my work, yet I cannot be displeased with him. Mycroft felt a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Despite his distraction, his productivity was not yet suffering. It was absolutely normal for him to check his mobile during the dull, pointless meeting that always happened Monday with the Prime Minister, his advisors, and all of the people who pretended they knew how to run a country. His staff generally met prior to that meeting to determine what the Prime Minister needed to know and how to deliver the information. Monday was always the earliest day of the week, and he’d already been in his office when he’d texted Greg earlier that morning.
Morning gorgeous. I’ve already been interrogated about my good mood. How are you? – G
Mycroft felt a smile growing on his face without his permission. Greg is thinking of me.
If I could explain how devastatingly dull Monday morning meetings are, I wouldn’t have to kill you, you’d expire of boredom. – MH
I have a briefing with my team at 10. Monday=meetings. – G
But I was thinking of you and wanted to say hi. – G
Mycroft felt a little thrill. I was thinking of you as well. I have smiled far more than is appropriate for my position this morning. – MH
Hahaha! – G
Mycroft tried to smother the laughter bubbling up out of his chest. Somehow Greg had made that statement humorous without actually being in the room. He could just imagine the interaction, though, and how they would laugh together. I may already be too far gone.
I fear that I must return to my work, much though I would rather chat. – MH
Ok, text me later if you have time. x – G
He looked at the x on the message for a moment. Is that a kiss? An x is a kiss, is it not?
You can be sure of it. x – MH
It wasn’t until nearly 4:30 that he had a moment to look at his mobile for anything not business related, and took a moment to compose a message to Greg. What should I say to him? Just that I’m thinking of him? Should I ask him about his day? How do I say that I’d rather just kiss him than text him?
Well, why not just say that?
I would much rather be kissing you than merely texting you at this moment. – MH
He waited a few minutes, feeling ridiculous for sending something so sentimental and embarrassing to his boyfriend. He was debating sending him a follow-up text when he received a reply.
Possibly the best text I’ve ever gotten. I’d rather be kissing you too. – G
Mycroft felt warmth suffuse him at Greg’s words. How has your day been? – MH
I had some unbelievable bullshit to clean up from a DI that let his sergeant do his job for him. That’s taken up most of my day. – G
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Greg had complained more than once about the administrative nature of his promotion, but he excelled as a supervisor. He still worked in the field when he was needed, and was welcomed by his team as an asset rather than being seen as a punishment for poor performance. And he still put up with Sherlock when it was required, which had long-ago elevated him to sainthood in Mycroft’s mind.
That sounds most unpleasant, however, I am certain you handled it with the utmost professionalism. – MH
No I handed his arse to him. – G
Mycroft smothered laughter. That is, of course, one approach. – MH
Going around regs for the greater good is one thing. Being a lazy sod and pawning your job off on someone who doesn’t know how to do it is another thing entirely. – G
I can relate to that. A great deal of government funding could be more wisely used if that were not such a common occurrence. – MH
He waited for a few moments to see if Greg would reply, then turned his attention back to his computer. American politics were looking grim this fall, and nearly every intelligence agency in the world was bracing for the imminent stupidity. Americans tended to take a ham-handed approach to diplomacy and were frankly idiotic with sensitive information at the best of times. It’s as if they still think this is the Wild West and the strongest gun in town makes the rules. Idiots. Unfortunately, American idiots were usually his problem. The CIA tended to think they were the world’s most adept intelligence agency, but they were terribly, terribly wrong. The vibration of a new text message redirected his attention to his mobile.
I’m going to have to work late to deal with this. Care to take a break for coffee/tea? – G
Mycroft felt a little thrill. Greg wants to see me. He checked his calendar. He had from 5 until 6 blocked off for tea if he planned to work late. It didn’t always work out, but it meant that today he effectively had 79 minutes free.
I would love to. I’ll pick you up in a few moments. – MH
Text me when you get here and I’ll come down. – G
Mycroft briefly wondered why Greg did not want him to come to his office. He felt a trickle of uncertainty, wondering if Greg didn’t want to be seen with him. Mycroft Edwin Christopher Holmes, you have never gone up to his office to get him only to leave again. It would be completely out of character, there is no reason to think that this is some type of rejection. In fact, he seldom went to Greg’s office at all. Normally they met outside of New Scotland Yard, even during their work hours. One of his cars or his club were far more secure for discussing Sherlock’s misdeeds and cases in which their paths crossed. Securing his computer, Mycroft collected his topcoat and umbrella. As he passed Andrea’s desk, she stated that his car would be waiting. They had an excellent working relationship for precisely that reason. There was no reason for him to leave his office with his coat without calling for his driver. She likely summoned his chauffeur when she heard him retrieve his umbrella from the stand near the door. He paused for a moment.
“Andrea, am I to understand that Dr. Watson made an unwanted advance upon you during your initial interaction years ago?”
She laughed. “He did, it was very embarrassing. For him.”
Of course, Mycroft recognized that his PA was very pretty. He had a large number of lovely women on his staff, because they were consistently underestimated. He had the option of hiding behind pheromones to utilize his intelligence and ability to the fullest extent. Women did not. In addition, women who aspired to positions such as these were usually more driven, more intelligent, and more loyal to those who saw their value than men. He made sure they knew that they were appreciated and seen as equals. Or, as near equal as anyone could be to him.
“Would you like for me to address that with him?”
She laughed again, harder this time. “Yes, tell him Anthea sends her regards the next time you see him.”
Mycroft chuckled. “I’ll see to it.”
As the car moved through London, Mycroft caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window. A tiny smile played around the corners of his mouth. Nothing that would inspire anyone to ask about good news, or even suggest that he was pleased with something, but he was afraid that it could become a permanent part of his expression if he didn’t maintain an awareness of it. It wouldn’t do for me to seem approachable. I earned the “Ice Man” moniker, it wasn’t just assigned to me at random.
Soon, but after far too long for Mycroft’s liking, they approached the building that held the one person that Mycroft actually wished to see at any given time. He quickly tapped out a message to Greg.
I’m waiting for you in the car. –MH
Greg’s reply was almost instant. Be there in a sec. – G
Mycroft waited very impatiently. Goodness, I’ve been away from him for less than 24 hours and I’m acting like it’s been years.
When the door opened and Greg climbed into the car, he couldn’t contain his happiness, and a broad smile spread across his face. Greg waited until the door was securely closed before turning to him. He was wearing an equally besotted expression.
“We’re ridiculous,” Greg whispered as he moved closer to Mycroft. “Absolutely ridiculous.” He cupped his cheek.
Mycroft could feel himself blushing. “Absolutely.” He held Greg’s palm to his cheek. “And I find that I don’t really care.” He moved close and gently touched his lips to Greg’s.
Greg sighed into the kiss, and slid his arms around Mycroft’s neck. He hadn’t expected Mycroft to be available to see him and was thrilled to get a few minutes with him. He moved to be as close as possible without climbing into his lap, assuming that might be a little too much for a Monday afternoon with a chauffeur on the other side of the glass. Reluctantly, he pulled back after a few moments.
“If we aren’t careful I’ll be on your lap and neither of us will be able to go back to work,” he joked.
Mycroft chuckled. “Perhaps we should agree to no indiscreet conduct in the car.”
Greg rearranged himself so that he was against Mycroft’s side, head on his shoulder. “I can’t commit to that at this juncture. Don’t want to get myself into trouble. I can’t be responsible for my actions if alcohol is involved because you’re fucking sexy.”
Mycroft wrapped arm around Greg’s shoulders and kissed his head. “I become far sexier with alcohol.”
Greg huffed out a laugh. “Stop it. You’re always sexy.” He moved just enough to kiss Mycroft’s jaw. “Where are we going for tea?”
Mycroft felt warmed by Greg’s matter-of-fact insistence that he was attractive. “La Madeleine.”
“Are we going to try to out-French each other? Because I’m actually French, I’ll win.”
“No, I’m not trying to ‘out-French’ you,” Mycroft replied, laughing. “We’ve been to La Madeleine before for tea. You’re fond of their almond croissants and they make elaborate espresso drinks.”
“That place! Why can’t I ever remember the names of the places you take me?”
“You’re distracted by my devastating sexiness,” Mycroft teased.
“Actually, that’s probably it,” Greg replied. “I was craving one of those croissants the other day.”
The wind that ushered them into the bakery was chilly. “I should have worn a heavier jacket,” Greg commented, holding the door for Mycroft. “It’s definitely autumn today.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes at Greg opening the door for him again. “The cooler weather does make me miss the fireplace at the Kensington house.” He walked to the counter. Greg stood beside him, close enough that it was clear that he was pleased to be seen with him, but not so close as to make him uncomfortable.
“Come to mine sometime, I have a nice little fireplace.” Greg’s flat was in a renovated Victorian, and the designer had kept fireplaces in all of the units, even after adding heating and air conditioning. “I’ll make you dinner.”
“I think I’d quite like that.”
Mycroft ordered his usual (spicy chai and an orange scone) and listened to Greg order his (almond croissant and some ridiculous American coffee drink with frothed milk and flavored syrup), before settling at “their” table. They always sat at table number three, it was always vacant when they came to La Madeleine. Mycroft had liked that, it made it seem more like a date. Now it really was a date. He smiled fondly at Greg as he took a seat.
“Our table is ready,” Greg joked as he settled in the chair.
“Indeed. I was just thinking about that.”
“Now it is our date spot, because we’re here on an actual date.” He thanked the young woman who delivered their drinks and pastries. When he looked at Mycroft, he was blushing.
“I was thinking precisely that.”
Greg smiled. “I’m glad you had to time to have tea with me.”
Mycroft slowly stirred cream into his masala chai. “As am I. I hope this can be a semi-regular occurrence.” He sipped the spicy Indian tea. “Mondays are always my longest days, so I try to keep an hour free to eat away from my desk in the evening.”
“Maybe I should do that, block off an hour so I can look at something besides my desk and eat actual food if I’m going to work late.”
“You could have something more nutritious than coffee for dinner.”
Greg chuckled. “I could see you for tea or dinner.”
Mycroft broke a corner from his scone. “I would greatly enjoy that, though I must warn you that my schedule can be erratic.”
“Trust me, I understand an erratic schedule.” Greg sipped his coffee. “I know there will be times when we don’t see each other for days. It’s part of the job, for both of us.”
Mycroft toyed with the napkin in his lap, not looking at Greg. “Will you not grow tired of being separated?”
Greg reached around the tiny table to squeeze Mycroft’s knee. “I’m not going to break up with you if we don’t see each other constantly.” He met Mycroft’s eyes when he looked up. “As much as I’d love to see you every day, I know that’s not possible.”
Mycroft nodded. “I would enjoy seeing you every day as well. You are the only person I enjoy being with for an extended length of time.” He smiled. “Although texting is not my favorite form of communication, being in contact with you today was quite nice.”
Greg grinned then bit into his croissant. It was every bit as good as he remembered. “It’s an easy way to let you know I’m thinking about you.”
“Indeed.” Mycroft chuckled. “Perhaps we should set boundaries on our texting topics now, before we embarrass each other in important meetings.”
Greg laughed into his foam. “Yah, no sexting during the work day.”
“I cannot share many details of my day, other than that someone, somewhere, is always attempting to ruin it. I am interested in your day, however.”
Greg swallowed more coffee, then launched into the trouble du jour. Mycroft listened, more caught up in watching Greg’s expressive face than in the play-by-play action of the officer in question. He is so passionate, about so many things, I cannot fathom the energy that would be required to care that much.
Too soon, coffee and tea were finished, and pastries were crumbs on plates, and the evening was closing in. “I have to get back to the office, I want to get everything squared away on this so I can start fresh with new disasters in the morning,” Greg groused, reluctantly standing from his spot at table three.
“I, too, must return to work. I’m hoping to be home before 8pm.” Mycroft stood and retrieved his umbrella from where it had been propped against the table.
“That’s what I’m shooting for, too.” Greg opened the door for Mycroft, earning another eye roll. Within moments of exiting the bakery, Mycroft’s car pulled up to the kerb.
Mycroft didn’t wait for his driver to open the door for them. He opened it and gestured for Greg to get in first. “I’m opening the door for you this time, you ridiculous man.”
Greg laughed, and really wanted to kiss Mycroft, but instead slid into the back seat of the car. He waited impatiently for Mycroft to join him, then kissed his cheek. “That was very romantic.”
Mycroft smiled. “It’s only fair, seeing as how you’ve opened the door for me several times. I enjoy romantic gestures as well.” He giggled when Greg kissed the tip of his nose. “Come now, my nose isn’t terribly deserving of affection.”
Greg laughed. “I like your nose.” He pressed his lips against Mycroft’s. “I like you all over.” He kissed him again.
Mycroft deepened the kiss, and was reluctant to let it end, but eventually he needed oxygen. “You’ve had entirely too much caffeine and sugar if you’re complimenting my nose of all things.”
Greg laughed. “There’s nothing wrong with your nose.”
Though he privately believed that Greg was either delusional or blind, Mycroft let it go. “Would it be acceptable to call you this evening?”
“Of course you can call.” Greg kissed him again, a slow, sweet kiss. “I’d love to hear your voice.”
The car pulled up at the Yard just as Greg pulled away. Mycroft squeezed his hand. “Thank you for inviting me to tea.”
Greg gave him a quick kiss. “Thank you for coming. Talk to you tonight, love.” He hurried out of the car before he could toss Mycroft on the seat and snog him senseless.
Mycroft pondered what had become of his life that table three at La Madeleine was now actually a spot for a date with Greg, not just wishful thinking. I started falling for him so long ago, he mused. It almost didn’t seem real that he should be able to take tea with Greg on a Monday afternoon and leave him with a kiss. I suppose I never need to invent a pretense for seeing him again. I can invite him to tea or dinner just to see him, and he will come just to see me. He caught himself smiling again and tried to assume a more neutral expression. He was distracted from his inner dialogue and recalcitrant facial muscles by his mobile vibrating in his pocket. He pulled it out. It was from Andrea.
Your 6:30pm meeting has been rescheduled to 4:00pm tomorrow, attendee A.W. requested. Your schedule was open so I approved the change.
That was excellent news. A.W. was Andrew Winston, a man who exemplified the term ‘drunken sot.’ At this time of night (5:53pm) he would likely already be at the bottom of a bottle of bourbon, rendering the meeting pointless. At 4:00pm he would have only just started drinking, and would likely have recovered from the previous night’s hangover.
Thank you, Andrea. Is there anything unusual on the schedule for tomorrow? – MH
You have a doctor’s appointment at 10:00am.
Well that was certainly unwelcome news. Thank you. With the meeting rescheduled, we have no further commitments this evening, feel free to go home. – MH
Thank you, sir.
Mycroft tapped his mobile against his chin, thinking. It’s been over a year. He told me two months ago that I was due to take a month off from the suppressants. I’ll have to schedule some time between now and Christmas to have my heat. He was mentally resigning himself to his biological fate when reality slapped him across both cheeks.
He’d ask, of course, but he couldn’t imagine Greg declining to share his heat. They cared for each other very deeply, were in a relationship, and were highly compatible sexually. The thought was absolutely thrilling. Terrifying, but thrilling. Greg is everything I’ve ever wanted in a partner. I’m falling in love with him. I want to share this with him. A little voice whispered about bonding, but he hushed it. It was too soon.
While he’d been absorbed by his own thoughts, they’d arrived at his office. As he stepped out of the car, he asked the driver to wait. He descended to his office, retrieved the items he needed for home (or did not trust to leave at the office overnight), and went home, thoughts of calling his boyfriend bringing an unconscious smile to his lips.
Just so you know, I'm actually American, so when Mycroft bashes Americans, there's no actual animosity behind it. Other than my own disappointment with my country.
Chapter 11: (for you are my fate
Though they didn’t see each other the rest of the work week, Greg and Mycroft spoke every day, with brief text conversations and by phone each night. And the fortunate part of being a DCI meant that Greg didn’t often get called when he was on duty, as his team seldom needed his assistance. More often than not, he just saw the file on Monday, and had the DI working the case give him run-down of what was happening. This meant that the first weekend in October was lovely, and they spent time together, cementing their relationship, and falling more in love with each other.
For some reason, Mycroft was reluctant to broach the subject of his heat. Partially because he feared that Greg would have a reaction he wasn’t prepared for, but mostly because he dreaded explaining how he had dealt with his heat for the last 15 years. That would likely also lead to an uncomfortable reaction from Greg, and perhaps a lengthy discussion. He knew that if he wanted Greg to share his heat with him, he’d have to, but he decided to put it off until a bit later.
The following week was rather stressful for Mycroft. Russia. It was always Russia. If not, it was North Korea. But right now it was Russia. He worked late into the night most of the week.
Thursday Greg had the luxury of going home on time. He went home to his cozy flat, took an indulgently long shower, made himself dinner, and retired to the sofa for a little telly. He missed Mycroft. I’ve barely been able to talk to him this week. It’s crazy how attached I am already. I love him so much. He really wanted to tell him, but it was too soon. Even though he’d been falling for years, they’d only been dating a week and a half, telling him now would be weird and clingy, and he would likely feel pressured to say the words himself. He doubted Mycroft was so far gone already. He’s a lot better at controlling his reactions that I am, he’s probably kept his feelings locked up for a while, and isn’t ready to say anything. I know he cares a lot. I don’t need to hear it until he’s ready.
He’d switched from the recap of the football game he’d missed to a police and court drama he enjoyed as a guilty pleasure, when there was a knock at the door. Not expecting anyone, he frowned as he walked over to answer it. He wondered if it was the girls across the hall needing help with something. Jenny and Hannah were good neighbors, they never had crazy parties or loud arguments, but they were clueless about most household maintenance tasks. How to you get to be 20 years old and not know how to use a screwdriver?
Greg opened the door ready to roll his eyes, but instead of two uni students, it was his boyfriend. “Mycroft!”
Mycroft was smiling. “I thought I might surprise you.”
Greg reached out to take Mycroft’s hand and pull him into the flat. “I love these kinds of surprises.” He closed the door and pulled Mycroft close, just hugging him tight and pressing his face to his neck, taking in his scent.
Mycroft seemed to understand, and squeezed him, kissing his temple after a moment. “I’ve missed you too.”
Greg pulled back and kissed him. “We’re ridiculous.”
With a chuckle, Mycroft pulled away. “Indeed.”
“Here take off your coat and jacket, come snuggle with me on the sofa.” He loved how quickly Mycroft had adapted to his desire for physical contact.
He removed his overcoat and jacket and hung them, along with his umbrella, on Greg’s coat tree, and after a moment of thought, toed off his shoes. He walked into the sitting room and settled on the sofa, propped against the plush arm. Greg had vanished into the kitchen, and came out with a tumbler half-full of amber liquid.
“I know you usually have a scotch to relax after work, this is the good stuff you gave me.” He handed the glass to Mycroft, grabbed his beer off the coffee table, and sat back down.
“Thank you, this is lovely.” Mycroft took a sip, and wondered about the best way to snuggle as Greg put it. At his flat, Greg typically sat against the arm of the sofa, and he rested against him with his back to Greg’s chest. “Here, move closer,” he asked, and Greg scooted next to him. He put his legs over Greg’s, knees pulled up. He leaned his head against his boyfriend’s shoulder. Greg put an arm around his back and turned his head to give him a quick kiss.
“Most of the time, you’re so proper and dignified, but sometimes you do the cutest things.”
Mycroft cocked his head. “This qualifies as cute?”
“Extremely cute. But I don’t know how you’re actually comfortable.”
“I sit with my knees drawn up to read,” he answered with a chuckle. “I don’t know how it’s comfortable either. Sherlock does the same thing.”
Greg kissed him. “He probably learned it from you.”
The conversation lapsed, and Greg’s attention was drawn back to the telly. “God that’s so unrealistic. Have they ever even seen a forensics lab?”
Mycroft looked at the telly. “Are you watching a crime drama?” His tone was incredulous. He watched as Greg blushed.
“Shut up. I criticize it the entire time. Like for instance, right now? She should be writing that down. Taking notes is important.”
Mycroft laughed. “It would lose some of the drama of the impromptu street-side interrogation if she was taking notes.”
Greg nodded. “But still.”
Before Mycroft reached the bottom of his glass, he was yawning. “I apologize, this week has been exhausting.”
“Do you want to stay?” Because I’d really like you to.
“I’d have to leave rather early.”
“It will keep me from finding an excuse not to go to the gym,” he joked.
“It’s only 8:06, it’s terribly early.”
Greg gave him much more suggestive kiss than the casual pecks they’d been sharing. “I’m sure we can find something to do,” he murmured.
Mycroft felt the stirrings of arousal at Greg’s tone. “Perhaps we can.” He unfolded his knees, and stood. Greg followed suit. He put his arms around Greg’s neck and pressed their lips together.
Greg immediately wrapped his arms around his boyfriend, and deepened the kiss, pulling a soft moan from Mycroft as he slid his hands down over his arse. He pulled them together and could feel that they were both hard. “Come to bed with me.”
“God, yes.” He’d never wanted sex the way he did with Greg. It was as if his libido had been dormant for 43 years.
Greg pulled him into the bedroom and immediately started undressing him. “I like this suit, it makes your eyes stand out.” He quickly unbuttoned his waistcoat and loosened his tie. “You look just devastating.” Shirt unbuttoned, he began kissing Mycroft’s neck. “But better naked.”
Mycroft tipped his head back to give Greg better access to his neck. “Your appreciation of my nude form is quite touching.” He pulled his braces off his shoulders and pulled his shirt out of his trousers. Unexpected, but touching.
Stripping Mycroft of his fine cotton dress shirt, Greg started on his trousers. “Touching?”
“Exciting and surprising were the other two adjectives I was considering.” He gasped when he felt Greg’s warm hands on his thighs.
Surprising? How is he so insecure about his appearance? “I like exciting better,” Greg teased. He dropped to his knees to take off Mycroft’s socks. He kissed his knees before standing. “God you look good.”
Blushing, Mycroft began to remove Greg’s clothing as well, which was much easier as he was in flannel pajama bottoms and a tshirt. “I greatly enjoy your body as well,” he whispered. “I’ve never been so attracted to anyone.” He impatiently divested Greg of his pants. “I want you all of the time.”
Greg stepped out of his pants and drew Mycroft over to the bed. “I want you all the time, too.” He released Mycroft to turn down the blankets, and got into bed. “Come here.”
Climbing on the bed, Mycroft settled on top of Greg, and kissed him. They didn’t break apart until they were both gasping for breath and rutting against each other. “What do you want?”
Greg had to hold Mycroft’s hips still, he couldn’t think. “Do you want to watch me?” Say yes.
“Oh, dear god, yes,” Mycroft moaned. He moved off of Greg, who promptly rolled over to get into his nightstand. He watched with combined embarrassment, fascination, and arousal as Greg removed lubricant and a toy from the drawer.
Greg sat up a bit against the pillows. “I think about you when I do this,” he whispered. “Have for years.” He spread his legs. “Can you see?”
Mycroft moved to kneel closer to the end of the bed. “Yes.” He watched as Greg applied lubricant to two of his fingers while he drew his knees up. This was already decadently arousing. I had no idea that I was a voyeur until just this moment.
Greg dropped his head back against the head board. Mycroft watching him was so fucking hot. He circled his entrance, teasing himself, before sliding two fingers in. He moaned. Being watched was one of his kinks. He loved it. He spread his fingers apart, loosening himself, craving more. Greg pulled his fingers out and added a little more lube, and groaned as he put in three, fucking himself. Unable to wait another second, he lubed the dildo and, meeting Mycroft’s half-lidded eyes, slowly pushed in.
Mycroft moaned, overwhelmed by the sight. He watched as Greg penetrated himself, unable to look away. He realized he was stroking himself, too aroused by Greg’s exhibitionism to resist.
Then Greg started fucking himself.
Mycroft nearly lost his mind.
Greg started slow, both because he liked it that way, and because he wanted to draw it out for his audience. He started speeding up without thinking about it, and wrapped his other hand around his cock. He loved this, but with Mycroft there it was infinitely better. “Are you watching?” he gasped out, unable to keep his eyes open.
“Yes, god, yes,” Mycroft replied breathlessly. “Fuck yourself harder.”
Greg moaned. Mycroft was taking control again. He happily complied. He hoped he could hold out and not come too fast.
Mycroft watched, growing more and more aroused. Greg was completely absorbed in his pleasure, and was absolutely breathtaking. He was pumping his cock, and had a thought. What if I…he enjoys it when I’m dominant… Deciding, he crawled up the bed and between Greg’s spread legs, and stopped his hand.
Greg opened his eyes and looked up. “What?” Mycroft’s expression was so hungry, and so fierce, he didn’t know what he wanted.
“I think I’ll take over.” His voice was low and dangerous.
“Oh my god,” Greg gasped out. “How do you want me?”
“Hands and knees.” He moved back to allow Greg to change his position.
“Holy fuck, yes,” Greg groaned out. He turned over and put his arse in the air. And, knowing how much Mycroft loved it, begged. “God, please fuck me. Please.”
“I do believe I’ll do just that.” Mycroft poured some of the lubricant into his palm, then applied it to his aching cock. Gripping one of Greg’s hips hard enough to bruise, he pushed into his hot, gorgeous body, and started thrusting. It was much easier in this position, and without much experimentation he was pounding into him. Greg’s shout of pleasure was exhilarating. He could feel Greg stroking himself with one hand as he moved in and out of his body. As he approached orgasm, he felt a desire that he couldn’t deny. He leaned over Greg, pressing his entire body against his back, and bit down on the back of his neck.
Greg cried out as his orgasm ripped through him. He’d never had anything this good. No one had ever bitten him like that and it was indescribable. He desperately tried to hold himself up, and was relieved when he felt Mycroft come and he could collapse to the mattress.
Mycroft lay panting on top of Greg for some time before being able to pull out and move to the side. He turned his head to look at Greg. He was smiling.
“That was absolutely the best sex I have ever had,” Greg mumbled into the pillow.
Mycroft laughed weakly. “It was amazing.” Good lord, what will it be like when we’re in heat together?
Eventually Greg hefted himself up and cuddled into Mycroft’s chest with a contented sigh. “I love this.”
Mycroft understood. Receiving comfort rather than giving it. Not being the strong one. He was enjoying the chance to do the opposite. “I do as well.”
Mycroft was beginning to drift off when Greg roused him by tickling his side just a little. “I have to shower.”
He nodded. “Would you like me to join you?”
Greg smiled and kissed him. “I’m actually going to recommend against it. My shower is going to leave one of us being cold and dry while the other one is under the spray.”
Mycroft laughed. “What? You don’t have a ridiculous waterfall in your bathroom?” He kissed Greg. “Go clean up, I’ll change the sheets.”
“They’re in the bottom drawer of my dresser. Be right back.”
Greg’s sheets weren’t as nice as his, but they were quite soft, and a very nice shade of blue. Mycroft tidied the bed, then went into the bathroom to clean himself up at the sink. “I’m in here, don’t be alarmed.”
Greg poked his head out around the curtain. “I’m almost done, why don’t you just hop in when I get out? They water’s already warm.”
I’ll need to shower in the morning anyway, it can’t hurt to wear Greg’s soap overnight. “That sounds lovely.”
They swapped places, and when Mycroft come out of the shower, dry and refreshed, Greg had removed the evidence of their earlier activities, and put a pair of boxer briefs on the bed for him. “We’re going to have quite a bit of each other’s underwear if we keep on like this.”
Greg laughed. “Do you want pajamas too? It’s been pretty cool in here, I was considering it.”
“Yes, thank you.”
Mycroft felt a silly little thrill at wearing Greg’s things, and kissed him to show his appreciation. “You are a wonderful boyfriend.”
Greg grinned. “Pot calling kettle. Do you want something to eat? I’m suddenly starving.”
As if on cue, Mycroft’s stomach growled. “That would be nice, yes.”
They headed to the kitchen for quick sandwiches and crisps. Mycroft was grateful that Greg kept more food in his flat than most bachelors. He made tea to go with their sandwiches, and Greg teased him.
“I have things to drink besides beer, scotch, and tea.” He laughed and opened the fridge. “See? Fizzy water with orange juice, lemonade, milk that I only use for cereal but you could drink it, even a bottle of wine.”
“I’m sorry, it’s been several hours since my last dose of tea, I’m afraid I’m beginning to have withdrawal symptoms,” Mycroft joked. He was clever and sarcastic a great deal of the time, but was not given to good-natured teasing. It just seemed to come so easily during banter with Greg.
Greg laughed, he hadn’t expected that from Mycroft. “Fine, I’ll have tea. Wouldn’t want you to be drinking alone.”
As they laughed together, eating sandwiches and drinking tea, Mycroft felt a sense of wonder that he could have a relationship that was so open and friendly and caring. He was so easy with Greg, the conversation flowed, and they just seemed to fit together. He didn’t feel any pressure to act a certain way or be a certain way with Greg. He hadn’t just been himself with another person in years. It was lovely. And he knew Greg so well, knew that even if their relationship ended Greg would never betray him, and it allowed him to just relax.
Greg squeezed his knee. “You were gone there for a minute.”
“Woolgathering. Thinking about have glad I am to have met you.”
Greg gave him a warm, fond smile. “I’m so glad I met you. Even if you were a prick, kidnapped me, and interrogated me about my involvement with Sherlock.”
Mycroft chuckled. “It must have worked, you’re my boyfriend now.”
“It must have. Come on, let’s go to sleep.”
Greg’s bed wasn’t as large as Mycroft’s but it didn’t need to be, considering they typically slept glued to each other. “What time do you want me to set the alarm for?”
Mycroft looked over from where he was arranging his clothes to minimize wrinkles in the morning. “Really, Greg, we must discuss your ending of sentences with prepositions.”
Greg gave him a look. “Excuse me, my lord, for what time do you want me to set thine alarm?”
Chuckling, Mycroft walked across the room to give Greg a kiss. “5:30 is fine.”
They climbed into bed, and resumed their earlier position, Greg lying on Mycroft’s chest. “I could get used to this,” Greg murmured.
Mycroft ran his fingers through Greg’s hair. He wondered what it had looked like when it was all dark. Ten years ago, it had already started to grey. “Indeed.”
Before he fell asleep, Mycroft had a realization. I want this forever. I want Greg forever. I’m in love with him. He realized that he’d been slowly falling in love with Greg for an entire decade. Before he could stop himself he whispered “Will you be mine forever?”
He felt Greg nod against his chest. “Forever,” he murmured, voice slurred with sleep.
Chapter 12: my sweet)
Greg was typing an email when his phone rang. It was Mycroft. “Lestrade.” Habit.
“I have to be out of the country for an unspecified length of time. I’ll be leaving within the hour. I’m afraid I will be unable to contact you for the duration.”
Greg sighed. He’d known this would happen at some point, he just wished it hadn’t been so soon. “Can you tell me anything?”
“No.” Regret colored Mycroft’s voice.
“No idea when you’ll be back?” Greg pushed his hand through his hair.
“No, I’m sorry.”
Greg dropped his head, even though no one would see his reaction. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’ll miss you terribly,” Mycroft replied. Greg knew he meant it.
“Will you be in any danger?”
“I’m afraid I cannot even disclose that, dearest.”
Greg felt a little thrill at the endearment. Mycroft had never called him dearest before. “I love you, Mycroft, please be careful.” The words were out before Greg could stop them. When silence was the response, Greg felt his heart sink. “It’s okay, you don’t have to--”
“Greg,” Mycroft interrupted with his name on an exhale.
“I find that I really do not have the words to express just how deeply I love you,” Mycroft said softly.
Greg’s heart soared from the pit it had fallen into. “Really?” He could feel himself grinning ear to ear.
“Really.” Mycroft paused a moment. “I’m afraid I must end our call, much though I am loathe to do so.”
Greg nodded. “Okay. Come home soon. Love you.”
“I love you as well. I’ll contact you as soon as I’m able.”
“Bye,” Greg whispered.
“Kisses,” Mycroft whispered back, then the line went silent.
Mycroft had never ended a call with kisses. Greg couldn’t help smiling. Sometimes he just did the cutest things.
Sally chose that moment to stick her head in the door, and saw him grinning like an idiot. “Spill, Boss.”
Greg looked away and pretended to type. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“Uh huh, sure. If you were a girl they’d say you were glowing.”
Greg looked up at her. “He loves me. We said the words.” The grin couldn’t be held back.
Sally grinned back at him. “Good on you, then. Are we ever going to know your mysterious boyfriend’s name?”
“Nope.” It had been about a month, and no one had gotten the information out of him. He wasn’t sure where he and Mycroft stood on sharing their relationship. They hadn’t talked about it. At this point he was making the assumption that Mycroft wouldn’t want it to be public knowledge.
“We’re going to figure it out, it’s just a matter of time, you know that, right?”
Greg leaned back in his chair and linked his fingers behind his head. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Sally huffed and left the office, closing the door with a little more force that necessary. Greg turned to his computer but wasn’t actually looking at anything. I shouldn’t worry. He told me he was an analyst and negotiator, not a fiend agent. He’ll be fine. But I’m going to be bloody bored. I’ve got used talking to him and seeing him all the time. Granted, his social life hadn’t been scintillating before he’d started dating Mycroft, but he hadn’t seen anyone else in ages. Even before they’d officially started dating, he’d been seeing Mycroft so regularly that he’d just been seeing friends occasionally. Maybe if the weather’s decent I can get the lads together for a game of football, it’s been, what, three months? John might want to go to the pub, that’s always a good time. I can read and watch telly, I guess. I can go see my parents, since Mum has been pestering me to come over. She made an effort to interrogate him about Mycroft every time she called. If he went over, he’d be a captive audience. So maybe not that.
While he was pondering things to do without the object of his affections, his phone chimed with a new text.
I instructed Andrea to contact you with any pertinent information if I am unable to do so. – MH
Ah. That made sense. Thanks. – G
Greg had a thought. Can you send me a picture of you? Sentiment. – G
He waited a moment, wondering if Mycroft couldn’t talk anymore when he received his reply. It was a quite nice picture of his boyfriend, obviously on a private plane. He’d sent a message with the picture.
Show this to no one, I look horrid. I would quite like a picture of you as well. Sentiment. – MH
He snapped a quick picture, hoping to god none of his team caught him taking a selfie in his office.
Love you. x – G
I have to sever communications now, dearest. I love you dearly. x – MH
Greg just sat at his desk for a little while, looking at the picture of Mycroft and the words on the screen. When I’m pouting like a 14-year-old that my boyfriend is gone, I can look at this and get over it, he thought wryly. “Okay, Lestrade, back to work,” he whispered to himself, put his mobile away, and got back to the case file he’d been reviewing when Mycroft called, but now with the knowledge that the man he loved felt the same.
Mycroft gazed out the window, not really seeing the clouds, tapping his mobile against his chin. He had never missed someone during a trip before. When he was very young, he’d missed his parents at a camp of some kind. With Alex...he turned his thoughts away. That way lay madness. But he already missed Greg. He’d planned to ask Greg to dinner tonight, and had looked forward to seeing him a great deal. He’d had to work the previous weekend, and they’d only seen each other for a few hours on Saturday evening. He’d been called back to work at 3:19am, and had left Greg sleeping, a regretful note on his pillow. He’d planned to broach the topic of sharing his heat this evening, but that would have to wait. Fortunately for both of them, this was a negotiation job, where is unlimited capacity for knowledge would ensure that he was more prepared than any other party, not one in which he was undercover. The excitement of legwork had palled in his early 30s, and now he delegated whenever possible. He would never admit it, even under the grimmest torture, but he attempted to enlist Sherlock for investigations because he so missed their interactions when they were still close. Working together was the closest they came to a convivial brotherly relationship these days.
He unlocked his phone, and looked at the photo Greg had sent. He was smiling sweetly, the corners of his eyes crinkled, and he was wearing the pink button up shirt that Mycroft was fond of. This is the man I love. Who loves me. I never thought I was capable of this. Or that I was remotely loveable. In fact, he’d been informed by several people that he was incredibly unpleasant once they’d gotten to know him. That was in part intentional; he was not interested in forming relationships with anyone. There was a very short list of people that he would not hesitate use his power to destroy if they became dangerous, or even inconvenient. Greg was at the top of that list. I cannot comprehend that I have found someone with whom I wish to spend my life. Though Mycroft was more skilled in social interaction than his brother, he cared far less about people than Sherlock. The Work was more important than any individual person. Most of them were unforgivably dull anyway. Greg was perfect in that way. He understood that the Work would always come first, because he felt the same. And for some reason, Greg did not seem so very dull as others. It truly made no sense. Perhaps it is that I cannot always anticipate his communications. Where most people are transparent, he is opaque. Part of it was that Greg clearly had no ulterior motive in associating with him. It was difficult not to develop warm feelings for someone who cared for you unconditionally, yet was not spineless and fawning.
Mycroft was stirred out of his musings by an alert on his mobile.
The additional security you requested for your bother and DCI Lestrade is in place. I will ensure that you receive an update on their well-being each day.
Excellent. Thank you, Andrea. – MH
Lady Smallwood requests that you inform her of your progress daily. I informed her that you had already planned to do so, but that I would relay the request. She appeared quite agitated.
More evidence of Andrea being an excellent assistant. She understood precisely how he operated and could anticipate his actions. They were a well-oiled machine. Lady Smallwood was not often agitated, however, nor did she make unnecessary requests of him. That is concerning. It could not be that she lacked confidence in his abilities, she was a trusted associate who was well aware of his skills and experience. An emotional stake. Perhaps she has someone personally involved in this situation for whom she is concerned. Lady Smallwood had a larger circle of associates for whom she cared than he did.
That is troublesome. Should she contact you again, please inform me. – MH
Conversation with Andrea concluded, his thoughts strayed back to Greg. I hope that he is safe while I am gone. I shall miss him greatly. But now I know for certain that he loves me, and that is a lovely thing to know.
Greg was standing over a body, and hoping he didn’t need Sherlock for this, when the devil himself appeared at the tape line, announced by Sally saying “Long time, no see, Freak.”
“How the bloody hell did he know?” he muttered to himself as he headed over to the DI and consulting detective in question. He nodded to the pair on other side of the line. “Sherlock. John.” He’d given up on getting Sally to be civil to Sherlock. She was grinning, though, which was odd. “How did you know that there was a murder?”
“Predictable.” Sherlock was looking over Greg’s shoulder to where the victim was being photographed.
“Predictable? What?” Greg waited for Sally to talk to her forensics lead. “What do we know about the victim?”
Sherlock inhaled and Greg put up a hand to stop the monologue before it started. “Stop it right there. This is Donovan’s crime scene, not yours. You weren’t even invited. She gets to tell me what’s here.”
Sally gave Sherlock a superior smirk before talking. “Florabella Hughes, aged 48. Landlady finally opened the door after the grocery delivery boy asked after her. Looks to have been dead 3-4 days.”
Greg ran his hand through his hair. “Clearly she didn’t just die of natural causes or we wouldn’t be here.” He saw Sherlock inhale again and put his hand back up. “No, you wait.”
Sally smirked again. “Right. There is chemical residue that we can’t identify on and around the victim, and it appears to have been ingested, she vomited while she lay on the floor. The colors and textures of the residues indicate at least 4 separate chemicals.”
Greg nodded. So far these were all things that he noted. “What about her, Hughes, when she was alive?” He saw Sherlock inhale again. “You wait your turn.”
Sally snickered. “She was a total recluse, a shut-in. Hadn’t left this flat in 8 years. Had her laundry sent out and got groceries delivered. Landlady brought her the post every day.”
Greg’s eyes narrowed. “If the landlady brought the post every day, and she didn’t answer the door 4 days ago, why did it take the grocery boy asking to check on her for the landlady to open the door?”
“I asked her that, she said that sometimes she’d just have to leave the mail in the hall for days because Hughes was too frightened to open the door. She’s never actually been in Hughes’s flat.”
“Which leads to the question of why she’s dead of some sort of chemical disaster when there’s no chemistry kit in the flat and she didn’t have visitors. Any packages for Hughes in the days before her death?”
Sally nodded. “Asked about that, said nothing unusual. All the mail is still in the sitting room.”
Greg crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Sherlock. “Okay, so the fact that you’re here tells me that I won’t find something obvious in the mail that this woman has clearly been keeping for the entire 8 years she’s lived here.” There was mail in neat piles covering one entire wall. “Or in the fridge, she’s getting delivered groceries. Or in her laundry, getting that delivered too.” He watched Sherlock inhale and open his mouth to speak, then his sharp eyes refocused on Greg.
“You’re seeing someone romantically.”
Greg rolled his eyes. “That’s not a deduction, John coulda told you that.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “It’s someone you’ve known for some time, someone that you’ve been comfortable with for years, so you’re not acting like a nervous teenager. A man. You haven’t told anyone about him because you’re hiding something, something about him, that he doesn’t want the world to know.”
Greg raised an eyebrow. “Again, not a deduction, John knows all of that.” He noticed that John was turned away laughing.
Sherlock did that narrow-eyed head-cock that indicated that he hadn’t heard what he’d expected to hear. “What?”
Greg grinned. “Everyone here knows I have a mysterious boyfriend that I won’t talk about.”
“And we’re all dying to know his name,” Sally chimed in. “We’re convinced he’s an assassin or international spy or a film star so it has to be hush-hush.”
John recovered from his laughing fit at Sherlock’s expense. “Why is it such a secret? I mean, you’re respectable and good-looking, with the bonus of being borderline famous.”
Greg ran his hand through his hair again, uncomfortable. He wanted to tell them something that would get them off his back for a while but not give anything about Mycroft away. He motioned for Sally, Sherlock and John to move in closer. “He’s an alpha, okay? I don’t really care if people know, but his life would be a lot more complicated if he was outed as gay.” That had the benefit of being a lie and true at the same time. “We haven’t been dating long, we’re not ready to say anything.”
Sherlock continued to stare at him for a moment. “He’s perfect for you.”
Greg smiled. “Yah, he is. He’s also on a business trip and wouldn’t appreciate coming home to me telling the world about him, so that’s all you’re going to get.”
Sally turned to Sherlock. “No, I was really looking forward to this when you got here, tell us everything about his boyfriend.”
Greg watched Sherlock with trepidation.
“You haven’t made any changes to your appearance or wardrobe, so he must be nearly the same age as you, no need to attempt to fit in with a younger crowd. He’s clearly someone that your circle of acquaintances would recognize or you wouldn’t be so concerned about hiding his identity. You worry that you’ll be judged when his identity is revealed, so it must be someone that is inferior to you in some way.”
Greg had to interrupt. “He’s not inferior to me in any way.”
“Perhaps he’s historically embarrassing.” Sherlock turned to Sally. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I have a feeling that our mysterious boyfriend has a terribly dull existence if Lestrade is the excitement in his life.”
“Hey,” Greg interrupted, about to come to Mycroft’s defense, then stopped himself. “At my age, excitement is a lot less appealing than comfort.”
“And yet here you are.” Sherlock continued to look at him for a few moments. “Never mind. The body.”
“Sally, give him the walk through,” Greg directed, then turned to John. Who was still smothering laughter.
“I didn’t tell him you were seeing anyone, so it was a deduction to him, at least,” John chuckled. “Sorry you’re so boring.”
“Ha ha, too funny,” Greg replied sarcastically. “How did Sherlock know about this murder?”
John refocused. “She’s an online friend of Sherlock’s. He terrorizes a forum for unsolved mysteries and they got to know each other.”
Greg looked over his shoulder at the empty desk. “She doesn’t have a…shit, we need to find her computer.”
“Guess the game is on,” John commented.
“Can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not. Let’s go.”
Greg was slogging through a mountain of paperwork and trying not to think about Mycroft when he heard a text alert. He shuffled papers and folders around until he found his mobile. It was John.
Your boyfriend still out of town? Want to join me for a pint? –JW
Nine days. Mycroft had been gone for nine days. He didn’t realize it was possible to miss someone this much. Yah, he’s still gone, I can meet you around 7 if I don’t die from paperwork. Where? –G
What about MacNelly’s? I heard it’s got a good beer selection. –JW
Of course John picked the new pub that he and Mycroft had gone to for a beer-tasting date. That wouldn’t make him miss him at all. Sounds good, mate. –G
See you then. –JW
Greg was cold in his coat on the way to the pub. November was bringing on the chill quickly. At least it wasn’t raining. Yet. He pulled open the door and was bathed in light, heat, and sound. Certainly a nice contrast to his lonely flat. He spotted John right away, he was at the end of the bar where the telly was showing American football for some reason. Greg clapped him on the shoulder before sitting down. “What the hell are we watching?”
John was mid-drink and almost choked when he laughed. “I have no idea, why do Americans wear such tight trousers?”
Greg started laughing too, and ordered a pint of the bitter he’d discovered when he’d come last time. “Real football kit has got to be more comfortable than that.” Obviously British football was real football.
“You play football, so you’d know.” John turned on his stool to face Greg, with a speculative expression. “So you’ve been dating this guy for how long now? And I still haven’t met him, learned his name, or seen a single picture?”
Greg chuckled. The mystery of his boyfriend’s identity was still amusing to him, even if it was driving his friends and coworkers ‘round the bend. “We’re not quite at that sharing stage yet.”
“Right, like it’s normal to keep your boyfriend a secret for almost two months.” John took a drink. “Tell me something about him. I’m dying.”
“What does he look like?”
Greg pondered the best way to describe Mycroft without giving him away. “Taller than me, sort of auburn hair, blue eyes.”
John rolled his own blue eyes. “Jesus Christ, be more specific, that describes half of the blokes in this pub.”
“He has freckles.” Greg drank deeply from his glass.
Greg glanced over at John’s amused and frustrated face. “Lots of freckles. On his shoulders. He hates them.”
“Got it, hates his freckles.” John signaled the bartender for another pint. “Fat or thin? Long hair or short hair? Glasses?”
Greg giggled into his glass at John’s insistence. “He’s overall pretty skinny, but has a little belly. He’s losing his hair, doesn’t wear glasses. I think he’d look good in glasses, though.” Greg took a drink, thinking about how Mycroft felt about his appearance. “He seems to think he’s hideous because of his hair and stomach, and it pisses me off that his last boyfriend made him think he wasn’t attractive. He is.”
John raised his glass to him. “Good, make him feel wanted.” He took another sip. “Older or younger?”
“Younger, but only by about a year. He looks younger though because he hasn’t gone grey.” Like I did in my fucking 30s.
“Tell me something that surprised you when you started dating him.”
Greg propped his chin on his hand while he pondered that. “We’ve known each other a while, so going from friends to dating didn’t have many surprises. Probably how much he likes cooking. He made me the poshest scrambled eggs the morning after our first shag.” He watched John’s face as he filed away the information.
“Where was your first date?” John was completely ignoring his beer in favor of interrogating him.
“I took him to a French place I like. It was hilarious because I knew he spoke French, but he didn’t know I did. I called him out on thinking I wasn’t the sort that would know a foreign language and he was appropriately remorseful.” Greg finished his beer, and signaled the bartender for another.
John latched on to that as a new topic. “What kind of beer does he drink?”
“Lager when he drinks beer at all. Stella is his favorite. But we came here for a beer tasting about two weeks ago and got me to try these Danish fruit beers that, honest to god, taste like muffins.”
John laughed. “Next round, I’m having muffin beer. What does he usually drink?”
“Wine or scotch, mostly. And probably more tea than is actually healthy.”
Greg took another drink, and watched John wrack his brain for more to ask. As much as he wanted to respect Mycroft’s privacy and position in the government, he was dying to tell everyone about him. Especially John, because he’d certifiably lose his shit when he found out. It was nice to reveal these little tidbits, it took the edge off.
John looked at him lowered eye lids. “What’s his kink?”
Greg gaped at him. “I’m sorry?”
John chuckled. “What’s his kink? Everyone has something.”
“How much detail do you want, mate?” Because Greg had no sense of decency at all.
“God, not that much, just, you know, what makes his toes curl?”
Greg took a long drink while he thought about how to phrase it. He decided to just throw it out there.
John’s turn to gape. “Seriously? Like, how dominant?”
Greg could see John picturing leather and riding crops. “Nothing like that. But he gets off on having control. Not all the time, mind.”
He watched John swallow more beer. “How do you like that?”
Greg considered is answer. “I love it. Submission is my kink.” He laughed when John just stared at him. “Didn’t see that coming?”
“An alpha with a submission kink, who knew? Anything else that you can blow my mind with?”
“He likes to watch, which works well because I’m a horrible fucking exhibitionist.”
John laughed and almost choked again. “How many public places have you had sex at?”
Greg laughed into his beer. “With him? None. Not gonna happen. When I was at uni? Pick a place in London.”
John burst out with laughter at that. “And you’re a fucking cop!”
Greg was laughing too. “I wasn’t then!” he defended. Sort of.
They laughed together for a bit, then John gave him a fond look. “It’s serious, isn’t it.” It wasn’t a question.
Greg nodded. “I’m in love with him. The day he left for his trip I told him.”
“What’d he say?”
Greg smiled, remembering. “That he didn’t know how to describe how much he loved me.” God he missed Mycroft.
Greg shrugged. “That’s how he is.” He drained his glass, and toyed with it for a moment, trying to decide if he wanted another. “I miss him.” He looked up when John gripped his shoulder and shook him a little. “I’m okay, really.”
“You’re completely gone on him,” John observed. “If he breaks your heart I’ll end him.”
Greg started laughing at the absurdity of John warning off Mycroft. “You, know, if anyone could take him down, it’s probably you, mate.” He’d seen the results of John’s temper first hand. And he couldn’t deny that there had been times in their history that seeing John punch Mycroft right in his smug face would have been very satisfying. “Sally said to tell him she knew how to cover up a murder.”
John laughed. “We’re a bit protective of you.”
Greg smiled. “I appreciate it. Sherlock was right, though, we really are perfect for each other.”
“You’ve known him a while, how did you meet?” John asked for another pint.
Guess I’m having another one. “Through a mutual friend.” When he kidnapped me after I talked to Sherlock at a crime scene.
“What’s he do for a living?”
Greg thought about how to describe Mycroft’s job but not describe it. “Sherlock was right about that too, his job is super boring. He’s some kind of analyst. Deals with numbers. I don’t know how he can stand it.” Maybe because international espionage is still pretty interesting reduced to numbers.
John took another drink. “Okay, tell me something else about him and I promise we can talk about football or rugby or something.”
Greg laughed. “Let me think.” He pondered all of the amazing things he’d learned about Mycroft since they’d become friends, and even more since they’d started seeing each other. “He has a piano at his flat, and he’s told me he plays, but he won’t actually play for me and I don’t know why.” He stopped to imagine Mycroft at the keys, letting the music take over, and showing that passionate side that only he ever got to see. “Maybe after we’ve been together longer, I don’t know.”
John nodded. “Maybe he’s like Sherlock and it has to be his idea or he won’t play.”
“Maybe that’s it.” That probably is it. Holmeses. “I’m going to change the subject to food. I’m starving.”
John tapped his glass. “Good call. Fancy a pizza? There’s a shop down a block.”
Greg drained his glass. “That sounds fucking fantastic.” He put enough money on the bar to pay for his three pints with a good tip. “As long as you don’t put anything weird on your pizza, like broccoli or eels or something.”
“That sounds vile.”
As they headed down the block, Greg couldn’t help but think about Mycroft. Nine days. He has to come back soon.
Chapter 13: i want no world
“Dimmock, that file needs to be on my desk Monday or you’re going to be directing traffic next week!” It was incomprehensible to him that someone that had been assigned to desk duty for a broken leg couldn’t get paperwork in by a bloody deadline. Greg shoved his hand through his hair, and considered the best strategy for piling up all of the shite on his desk so he could leave. Part of him wanted to just leave it, but the rest of him knew he’d be pissed as hell to see this mess on Monday morning. He was nearly done when his phone chimed.
Mr. Holmes is en route to London. His flight is scheduled to land at 7:04pm.
Will he be going to the office first or directly home? – G
Directly home. I’m ensuring that. His entry code is your 8 digit birthday.
That had to mean Mycroft wanted him to be there when he got home. Thanks, I’ll head there now. – G
Greg grabbed his coat and made sure he had his phone, keys, and wallet. As he left his office he nodded to Sally, who was coming back from the lift. “I’m off.”
“Enjoy your weekend, Boss.”
Inside he was nearly bursting with excitement. Mycroft is finally coming home. God I’ve missed him. How can 12 days feel so much like 12 years? He was pretty sure he’d never missed anyone the way he’d missed Mycroft. In the car, he made a plan. “Okay, go home, shower, shave, get things for the weekend, head to Mycroft’s.” He pulled out into traffic. “Make tea,” he laughed to himself. He was sure Mycroft would want tea, and probably dinner. He hit the speakerphone button on the steering wheel and had Siri send a text to Andrea to send some basic groceries over. When she replied he had Siri read it.
Not for the first time, he wondered if Andrea was psychic. At least he wouldn’t have to try to scrape together a dinner with what was salvageable from 12 days ago.
At home, Greg made record time getting ready to go. It was still almost an hour until Mycroft’s plane was supposed to land, but he was too impatient to wait around before heading over. “I wonder when he changed the door code to my birthday,” he mused aloud as he was zipping up his overnight bag. Checking the weather on his phone, he grabbed a scarf and gloves. He was looking at the coffee table when it occurred to him that Mycroft might be delayed or go to bed early, and he’d need something to do. He grabbed the latest James Patterson novel off the table and stuck it in his bag. Mycroft is going to tease me for reading mysteries in my spare time.
Traffic had subsided just a bit when he left, and he made it to Mycroft’s empty high rise in good time. He considered making faces at the camera like an 8-year-old but contained himself. It felt distinctly odd to type his birthday into the keypad and walk into Mycroft’s flat like he lived there. Whoever had brought the groceries had left the lights on in the kitchen so he could see to go in. The flat was dust free and the old food was taken out of the fridge, so clearly someone had been cleaning. I wonder how many background checks Mycroft’s cleaning lady had to go through.
He had just put on the water for tea when he heard the door open. He looked up and saw his much-missed and clearly exhausted boyfriend. Abandoning the kettle, he rushed to the door, just barely restraining himself from pouncing on Mycroft. “Welcome home, love.”
Mycroft dropped his briefcase and umbrella and opened his arms. “Greg.” He sighed happily when he felt Greg’s strong arms around him, and wrapped his own around his beloved. They just stood together for a moment before Greg pulled back.
“God, I missed you,” he whispered, and slid his arms around Mycroft’s neck. “So much.”
Mycroft brought his lips to Greg’s, and they kissed for the first time with the knowledge of each other’s feelings. The kiss stayed slow and intimate, passionate but never becoming sexual, and it deepened Mycroft’s belief that Greg was his perfect match. He knows exactly what I need, and he wants the same thing. Eventually he had to break the kiss, but didn’t pull away, just pressed their foreheads together, eyes closed. “My dearest love,” he whispered.
“I love you so much,” Greg whispered back. He wanted to pull Mycroft against him and never let him leave again.
They stayed that way for a few moments, before Mycroft reluctantly pulled away. “Much though I would love to lead you to the bedroom and show you exactly how much I love you, I’m exhausted, starving, and would cheerfully strangle someone for a cup of tea.”
Greg smiled. “I’d just put the kettle on when you walked in. Go take a shower, I’ll make you tea and get something started for dinner.”
“Bless you.” He kissed Greg again, then dragged himself to the bedroom.
When he wandered into the kitchen, refreshed and dressed in pajamas (Greg was a terrible influence, wearing pajamas about the flat), Mycroft was pleased to see a steaming mug of tea on the breakfast bar, and his handsome boyfriend at the stove. “Thank you for the tea.” He sat at the bar, as he and Greg nearly always ate there. “What are you making?”
Greg looked over his shoulder with a smile. “Pancakes.”
With a laugh at Mycroft’s absolutely scandalized tone, Greg answered “Yes, for dinner. I know you want sweets when you’re tired.”
“I’d like to argue with you, but I can’t. You’re spoiling me terribly, though, making an entire meal of sweets for me.”
Greg walked over to where Mycroft was sitting, two plates laden with fluffy pancakes in his hands. “I won’t make a habit of it.” He retrieved butter and syrup, as well as forks and napkins, before returning. “But you’re tired, and you’ve been gone almost two weeks, and I want to spoil you.” He sat down next to Mycroft and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Coming home from a business trip to a salad just seems cruel.”
Mycroft chuckled. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to have you here tonight.” He poured the expensive, imported maple syrup over his pancakes. “Not just for the pancakes,” he clarified.
“I’m glad to be here, love.”
By the time they’d finished their pancakes, Mycroft was yawning and trying desperately to stay awake. He was trying to hide it, but Greg watched him almost doze off over his tea. “Let’s go to bed, I’ll do the washing up tomorrow.”
“I don’t want you to have to go to sleep at 8:34 just because I’m tired.”
Greg smiled as he pulled Mycroft to his feet. “I’ll hold you til you fall asleep, then I’ll get up and read or watch telly until either I get tired or you wake up.”
“If you don’t mind,” Mycroft tried to express through a monstrous yawn.
“Mind? I want to. I love you.”
Mycroft stopped. “I don’t believe I’ll ever stop feeling a thrill when you tell me.”
“You’ll be thrilled a lot, I plan to tell you all the time.”
Mycroft stifled a yawn while Greg was turning down the bed. “It might take me some time to realize that it is something I both can and should say. But never doubt that I love you.”
Greg started to undress as Mycroft climbed into bed. “Every time you smile at me, you’re telling me.” He walked around to his side of the bed and slid under the blankets.
Mycroft turned over to face Greg, a soft smile on his face. “I’m telling you right now that I love you.” I didn’t know I was capable of loving someone like this.
Greg cuddled close and kissed him. “Do you think you’ll sleep all night?”
“Not likely. If I wake up at 3:00, I’ll try not to disturb you.”
“You can disturb me, I’ll go right back to sleep after I kiss you.”
“You’re absurd.” Mycroft’s look was fond.
Greg turned away to wave his hand over the sensor to turn off all of the lights. “Completely absurd.” He moved back into Mycroft’s embrace. “If you want to turn over, I’ll rub your back.”
Mycroft kissed him. “Bless you.” He’d grown very fond of Greg’s gentle hands on his back when falling asleep.
Greg moved his hand in soothing circles over Mycroft’s tense shoulders and down to the small of his back. It was less than five minutes before his breathing evened out and Greg could tell that he was asleep. Carefully, as not to disturb his sleeping boyfriend, Greg eased out of bed to put on pajamas and grab his book. And take my contacts out, my eyes feel like they’re full of sand. He got out his glasses and set them on the nightstand with the book and took the new pair of contacts into the bathroom. There was a medicine cabinet to the side of each of the sinks, so he basically had his own, and had left toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant, and saline in there. It’s like I live here. Peeling the lenses off his corneas and flushing his eyes with saline was pure relief. He hoped he could navigate to the bed in the dark. Woulda been smart to bring my glasses in with me.
Once his eyes adjusted, the broad path back to the bed was discernable, even without the benefit of corrective lenses. Donning his glasses, he piled up the pillows and turned on the tiny reading lamp, dim enough not to wake his boyfriend. Mycroft’s bed was sinfully comfortable, and reading in bed had just reached a whole new level. He cracked open the mystery and got lost in the author’s world.
Mycroft fought off the trailing spider webs of a dream that even his half-awake brain could determine was completely mad. It involved a small dog stealing a diamond necklace and something about rain and umbrellas. And cake. He forced himself to open his eyes, and was surprised to find a soft glow coming from behind him. Turning over, he saw that Greg was propped up against the headboard reading. There was something different about him. Mycroft pulled himself together with a force of will, and noticed that Greg was wearing a pair of dark-rimmed glasses. And he looked gorgeous.
Greg noticed the movement beside him and looked over. “Hey, you. You only slept about three hours.” He noticed that Mycroft appeared to be transfixed by his face. “What’s wrong?”
“I’ve never seen you in glasses before.”
Greg made a face. “I almost never wear them. I started wearing contacts when I was 14 or 15.”
Mycroft cleared his throat. “They are quite appealing.”
Greg grinned. “Like ‘em?”
“Your appearance in them is very…affecting.”
Laughing, Greg put his book aside to bend down and kiss Mycroft on the forehead. “Thanks.”
Mycroft cuddled into his side, head resting on his abdomen, arm across his hips. And noticed the book. “Are you reading a murder mystery novel?”
“It’s a guilty pleasure. I can usually finish one of these in a weekend if I don’t have anything else on.” He felt more than heard Mycroft chuckle. “Shut it.” He put the book on the nightstand.
“Do you think you might be able to take a week off this month?” Mycroft asked softly.
Greg looked down at Mycroft. “Maybe, why?”
He sighed. “My heat.”
“Is it imminent?” Greg sounded concerned.
“No, no, I haven’t stopped my suppressants. But it’s been 18 months, and both my body and my doctor are demanding that I have a brief respite.” Mycroft sighed again. “I hate it when my body dictates my actions.”
Greg had nothing but sympathy for the females and omegas in the population. “I know you don’t like to give up control to anything, let alone your ovaries.”
Mycroft laughed softly. “Yes, precisely. But I would very much like to share my heat with you.”
Greg adjusted against the pillows to be closer to Mycroft’s level. “I’d very much like to share your heat with you.” He was actually starting to get hard just thinking about it. “I love the idea of having you to myself for a whole week.”
“That would be lovely. It will be a welcome change to stay at home.”
“Stay home?” Greg’s brow furrowed with confusion. “Where do you usually go?” It occurred to him that he’d never considered how Mycroft dealt with having his heat when his public persona was a very dominant alpha. He felt Mycroft take a deep breath and let it out.
“There is a very private resort in South America that caters to clientele that share my situation. There are many more male omegas hiding their true sex than you would believe.”
Greg’s mind was blown. “I had no idea. So they have, uh, alphas who, um--”
“Provide services, yes.”
“Wow.” Greg tried to digest the information. “I imagine that’s better than trying to make it through three to five days of hell with just a sex toy.”
That surprised a laugh out of Mycroft. “It is far superior to using a heat aid, yes. But the anonymity and lack of emotional connection can make one feel a trifle lonely.”
“I’m guessing they try to make sure you never get the same alpha twice so you don’t get attached.”
Greg chuckled. “Please tell me these guys were drop-dead gorgeous.”
That was unexpected. “Yes, they were incredible,” Mycroft laughed.
“Good, only the best for you,” Greg laughed.
Mycroft was so unbelievably relieved that Greg wasn’t sickened or disgusted, or even uncomfortable with this, that he started giggling. “And they wait on you hand and foot. I never had to do anything for myself. Being fed grapes in bed by a naked Adonis is quite a heady experience.”
Greg was laughing. “Do you think I could afford this place? I want to be fed grapes in bed by a naked Adonis.”
“Foot massage while floating in a scented bath…”
Mycroft squeezed him. “I’d rather be in my own bed with you, my love.”
Greg melted. “Maybe sometime we could go to a resort so there would be room service at our fingertips. I know there are resorts just for couples sharing their heat.”
Mycroft moved so that he could look at Greg. “I would love that. There is something to be said about resting between rounds with chilled champagne in a tropical paradise.” He kissed him. “Let me know when you can take a leave from work.”
“Actually, there is a clause in all of our contracts for time off for a partner’s heat or your own heat so many times a year. I can just tell my team that I’m taking a vacation, only the human resources people will know that it’s for your heat. Actually, they won’t even know, there’s some third-party company that manages that stuff.”
“I can, of course, ensure that nothing is ever made public. It is highly unlikely that their data management systems can withstand my attention.”
“You scare me sometimes.” Greg kissed him. “So no one that knows me will actually know that I’m sharing someone’s heat with my week off.”
Mycroft returned his kiss. “Wonderful.”
Greg wrinkled his nose as he pulled away. “Downfall of wearing glasses. Nose prints when you kiss.” He pulled them off and set them on the nightstand.
“How much can you see without them?”
Greg turned to look at Mycroft. “I can see you, but I have to make an effort to refocus for you to be clear. I can see most of what’s on the rest of the bed, but beyond that, even though I can see that it’s there, I can’t determine how far it is. I lose depth perception after around 6 feet.”
“You’re beginning to feel a need for additional correction when using your computer and reading, are you not?”
Greg gave Mycroft a look of shock and awe. “How…?”
Mycroft chuckled and sat up a bit. “When you’re using your mobile, you bring it closer to your face than you had done as little as six months ago, and you were holding your book closer to your face than you did when I last saw you reading, a little over four months ago. In addition, you’ve complained of a work-related headache after using your computer for an extended length of time 11 times in the last two months. I’ve watched you ‘refocus’ as you called it to speak to people who approach you after you’ve been looking at something else each time I’ve been with you since we began seeing each other.”
“I cannot fathom the power of your mind.” Greg leaned in and kissed Mycroft. “And yes, I am due for an eye exam. I’m afraid I’m about to hear the B word.” Mycroft gave him a quizzical look. “Bifocals.”
Mycroft laughed softly. “Well, you are getting on in years.”
Greg rolled his eyes. “Thanks.” He allowed Mycroft to kiss him. “Just remember that your feet are ticklish and you have to sleep sometime.”
“I’m trembling in fear.” Mycroft kissed him again. “Do not be concerned, dearest, I will no doubt find you attractive into your dotage.”
Greg laughed. “How am I in love with someone that uses the word ‘dotage’?”
“I’m afraid it’s a package deal, I come with the vocabulary preloaded and you can’t uninstall it.” He pulled Greg down so that he could rest his head on his chest.
Greg kissed the top of Mycroft’s head. “I’ll just keep my mobile handy to look things up in case they’re insults.” He waited a moment. “I love you, Mycroft. So much.” He felt his boyfriend squeeze him.
“I love you so very dearly, Greg.” The room was silent for a moment. “It’s quite lovely to be able to tell you that.”
“It’s such a relief, it was hard to hold it in.” He yawned. “Now that you’re awake, I’m tired.”
“I remain quite fatigued, I’ll no doubt wish to sleep again within the next hour or so. Perhaps after a cup of tea.” He looked up to meet Greg’s eyes, inviting him to share the joke.
Greg laughed. “You need an intervention. ‘Mycroft, I love you, please let me help you.’”
Mycroft joined his laughter. “I can stop any time I want.”
They chuckled together for a few moments, snuggled together. Finally Mycroft pulled away with a soft sigh. “I fear that I must relieve myself, and I really do want a cup of tea.”
“I’ll go put the kettle on for you. Maybe we can watch telly or something.”
“Lovely, thank you.”
Greg reluctantly left the plush nest of pillows and headed to the kitchen (after replacing his glasses on his nose). He filled the kettle and turned it on. Mycroft’s tea mug from earlier was still on the counter, so he washed it out to reuse it. Looking at the tea choices, he thought about what Mycroft might like. No caffeine, since it’s late, something soothing, with cream and sugar, he always likes sweet tea when he’s tired. He chose a decaffeinated chai tea from the pantry and got the cream from the fridge. Mycroft had a truly impressive collection of teas.
When Mycroft emerged from the bedroom, he’d added a deep blue silk dressing gown to his pajamas. “I’ve never seen that dressing gown before,” Greg commented.
“That’s because you’ve corrupted me into wearing pajamas about the flat. Ordinarily if I need to leave the bedroom before dressing for the day or after removing my clothing in the evening, I wear a dressing gown.”
Greg laughed as he poured water over the loose tea that he’d measured into the infuser. “I’ve seen Sherlock put a silk robe over his pajamas and even a shirt and trousers. Is it a Holmes thing?”
Mycroft joined him in the kitchen at the tea counter. “Normally I don’t have anything under my dressing gown, that’s why I put it on to roam around the flat. But I was chilly so I added it to my ensemble.”
“How is a silk robe going to keep you warm?”
In response, Mycroft untied the sash and pulled it away from his body. “It’s lined with soft fleece. Refined elegance with the utmost of comfort.” He retied the gown about his waist. “That smells like masala chai.”
“It is, the decaf one.”
“How did you know to choose this tea?”
Greg smiled. “We’ve already established that you like sweets when you’re tired. Chai just begs for sugar. You also like something soothing when you’re about to go to bed, so cream. And since you don’t want to be up, you said you wanted to go back to sleep, decaf. I also know that chai is your favorite tea for a dessert, you always have it if we go to get a pastry.”
Mycroft gave him a narrow-eyed, dangerous look. “You are far too observant. I shall have to be more secretive.”
Greg laughed and slid the mug in front of his boyfriend. “Here.” He pushed the cream and sugar over.
In reality, Mycroft felt quite touched by Greg noticing the things he liked. “Thank you, dearest.” He stirred cream and sugar into his tea. “If you wouldn’t be too terribly bored, there should be a program about the lesser-known sites for travel in Japan recorded. I would very much like to travel to Japan again, this time for pleasure, and it caught my fancy.”
“I guess I could suffer through it, as long as you promise to take me on the trip,” Greg teased. He’d always wanted to go to Japan.
Mycroft chuckled as he carried his tea into the sitting room. “If I must.”
As they cuddled together on the sofa learning about historical sites in Japan, Greg reflected that the best times were the quiet times, when he and Mycroft just enjoyed each other’s company, sharing affectionate caresses and tiny kisses. I want to spend the rest of my life like this. Eating pancakes for dinner, watching telly with Mycroft against my chest, making him sweet tea before bed. I’m never letting him go.
Greg woke to Mycroft bringing him a steaming cup of coffee in bed.
“Rise and shine, my love. It’s nearly 10.”
He’d been sleeping face down so it took him a few moments to move into a coffee-drinking position. “How long have you been up?” He accepted the mug gratefully.
Mycroft settled carefully onto the bed, tea in hand. “Only an hour or so, I was exhausted. But I decided your lie-in had gone from indulgent to ridiculous and that I needed to intervene.”
“Then I won’t tell you what time I get up on weekends when I’m not with you.”
“Please tell me it still falls ante meridian.”
Greg sipped his coffee. Of course, it was perfect. “I said I wasn’t going to tell you.”
“Rising at the same time each day allows your body to be more awake and aware when demands are placed upon it, even if one goes to sleep rather late the night before.”
“Uh huh.” Greg took a longer drink of coffee. “Because we get up at 5:30 on Saturday and Sunday every week.” When silence was his response, Greg chuckled.
They sipped their beverages in comfortable silence for a while before Mycroft broached the subject of the day’s plans. “It is a singularly dreary day, yet I find myself wishing to venture out a bit. Normally after long trip I become a hermit, but I’m feeling rather restless. Do you have any ideas of things you might enjoy doing with me?”
“Is there anything I enjoy that you would tolerate?” Greg teased. He grabbed his phone to check the weather. “It’s both miserably cold and raining, so something indoors that we can drive to. Or be driven. A film maybe? Or a museum?” I can’t believe I’m even suggesting going to a museum.
Mycroft’s face brightened. “How long has it been since you visited the British Museum?”
Greg scrunched up his face, looking at the ceiling. “Not since I was about 12.”
“What was your favorite exhibit?”
Greg didn’t have to think about it. “The Egypt part. With the mummies.”
Mycroft sipped his tea. “The Egyptian government has placed a great deal of pressure on museums around the globe to return their artifacts to their native land. It is highly likely that the Egyptian segment of the British Museum will be closed sometime in the next decade.”
“I can see why, but it’s still a pity, it’s pretty cool.”
“Did you know that what is displayed is merely a trifle? That the Museum houses thousands more artifacts than the public will ever see?”
“I assumed so, yah.” Greg sipped his coffee. “No wait, don’t tell me, you can get us in to see the collection.”
“Is that something in which you would be interested?”
Greg grinned. “That would be amazing.” He carefully leaned over to kiss Mycroft. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“There’s no point in having power if I don’t abuse it occasionally.”
Greg chuckled. “I like that philosophy.”
“This is a very minor abuse of power, I’m quite well acquainted with the director and the staff. I discovered a passion for all things Egyptian when I was a boy. I learned early on, however, that I sunburn far too easily to be an archaeologist and gave up the dream.” Mycroft smiled at Greg. “Has Sherlock ever told you that I specialize in omniscience?”
Greg set his coffee on the bedside table and lounged against the pillows. “Actually, yah, now that you remind me. About the same time he told me you were his archenemy.”
“He’s not far off on my specialization being omniscience. I know an alarming number of things, and that is what makes me so very skilled in my position. In this case, it means I am absolutely the most insufferable person on the planet when it comes to visiting the Egyptian collection at the British Museum. I know everything. More than most of the people there. And it is infuriating to them. And I’m not a modest man and I revel in their discomfort.”
With a burst of laughter, Greg pushed himself up to kiss Mycroft again. “You correct them, don’t you, if they say something wrong.”
“Yes, and bring up annotated documents on my phone to support my assertions. I often know about new details of the research in Egypt before anyone else on British soil. One of the analysts is an Egyptian woman, Dr. Sayed, and she loathes me. She feels that she has the unique position to bring new information into Britain. When I’m feeling especially magnanimous I allow her to present papers rather than beating her to the punch.”
“You’re a terror. I was thinking I’d have to try not to embarrass you in front of the smart people, but I need to worry about you embarrassing me.”
“I’ll do my best not to embarrass you,” Mycroft groused. “Hopefully Dr. Harper will be there, he is nearly as knowledgeable as I am, and we get on famously. Well, as much as I get on with anyone.”
“You get on famously with me,” Greg pointed out.
Mycroft smiled down at Greg where he’d fallen back against the pillows. “You’re something of an aberration.”
“I’ve always aspired to be someone’s aberration. What the hell does that mean?”
“That you are completely different. A departure from the usual.” Mycroft set his tea aside so that he could cuddle into Greg’s warmth. “You are a most welcome aberration.”
Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft. “I need a fancy word to describe what you are to me. Let me think about it.”
“When you call me your boyfriend, that is thrilling enough.”
“I could switch over to paramour, that’s a fancy word.”
Mycroft laughed softly into Greg’s chest. “Has a bit of a negative connotation, though.”
Greg chuckled. “Everything sounds fancy in French. I could call you fromage and it would sound elegant.”
“Please don’t call me cheese,” Mycroft laughed.
“Non, mon cher amour.”
“It does sound lovely in French.”
“How many other languages do you speak?”
“Hm, fluently, 7, conversationally, a further 12. If I give it an hour or so of study to refresh my memory, hundreds. There are estimated to be over 3000 languages on the planet.”
“How do you say ‘I love you’ in some of those languages?”
Mycroft smiled. “Some are simple. In Italian, ti amo. In German, ich liebe dich. In Greek, se agapo. In some languages, there are words for different kinds of love. In Japanese, if you love someone deeply, it’s aishiteiru. If it’s romantic love, it’s koishiteiru. If it’s friendly love, or a crush, one usually uses daisuki.”
“Will you be satisfied if I can only say it in English and French?”
“Always. But I could learn it in every language in the world, and I’d still never be able to tell you how much I love you.”
Greg felt tears forming in his eyes. “Mon cher amour,” he whispered. “Je t’aime.”
“We’re becoming terribly maudlin, we must get up now.” Mycroft made no effort to move.
Greg squeezed Mycroft tight, and enjoyed feeling Mycroft squeeze him in return. “I’d say mushy, but maudlin does sound more educated.”
Mycroft chuckled. “Or old-fashioned. Perhaps sentimental?”
“You and your words. ‘A rose by any other name,’ love.” He squeezed Mycroft one last time then pulled away. “Come on, let’s go look at dead bodies that are not my problem.”
Mycroft, it turned out, was only a minor terror.
The abysmal weather had driven people indoors on a Saturday, so a fair number of London’s bored children were being led through the museum by tired mums that had just wanted a chance to get out of the house for a few hours. There were the usual elderly patrons that weren’t familiar with modern bathing practices and had never thought about getting their coats cleaned, teenagers looking for spots to loiter and snog, and tourists, many of which also weren’t up-to-date on modern bathing practices. It was louder than a museum should ever be, and both men wondered if they’d made a terrible mistake.
“Can we go through the regular exhibit first?” Greg asked as they queued. “I haven’t seen it in 30ish years.”
“Of course. I shall attempt to allow you to enjoy it without turning our visit into a post-graduate antiquities seminar.”
Greg chuckled. “I’ll let you know if you’ve gone from helpful to overwhelming.”
“The real problem lies in my desire to show off, I’m afraid. I seldom have an audience for my omniscience.”
“You and Sherlock. In that case I’ll let you know when you’ve gone from entertaining to annoying.”
“Probably wise.” Mycroft pulled his mobile from the pocket of his coat. Greg had persuaded him to dress casually for their trip, and he felt terribly vulnerable. “Dr. Harper says that one of his interns will let us into the private areas after we’ve done the usual tour, I just need to alert him.”
They shuffled along in silence with the burgeoning crowds, focused more on staying together than on seeing anything for a time. Greg itched to take Mycroft’s hand, but didn’t know how well that would be received. They’d held hands when they were out before, but he didn’t know if it would be okay to do it in the crowded museum where there were tonnes of people (and security cameras). He actually really wanted to take off his coat, too. Now that they were in the building with the mass of humanity, it was unpleasantly warm.
Mycroft was apparently feeling the same thing. “Just inside that hallway is a private office that is officially for government use, and by government use, I mean my personal use. I have the code to the door, we can stow our coats in there for the afternoon.” He indicated the direction with a tilt of his head.
“Abusing power?” Greg followed him down the narrow hall to the secured door.
“Where else am I to hide from Dr. Sayed when I have deliberately annoyed her?” He keyed in the code and opened the door, flipping on the light. “Little more than a closet, but a convenient spot to work when I would rather not be found.” Mycroft shrugged out of his elegant deep blue coat and scarf, and laid both across the small sofa against the wall.
Greg took a moment to admire Mycroft in the outfit he’d suggested. Those sexy dark jeans, one of his button up shirts that was sort of cream colored, and a soft blue jumper. He looked quite sophisticated in Greg’s eyes. “You look amazing today, Mycroft.”
Mycroft watched as Greg removed his own coat and scarf. “Thank you, dearest. How did you know I was feeling insecure?”
“I just know.” He tossed his coat on top of Mycroft’s. He was glad he’d replaced his old coat before he started dating Mycroft, his previous overcoat had been pretty sad-looking there at the end.
They exited the closet-cum-office, and rejoined the milling crowds. Mycroft wanted to be sure that they weren’t separated, so he gently slid his hand into Greg’s. He was rewarded with a squeeze and a loving smile.
When they traveled into the first room of the collection, Greg slowed to just take it in. “I thought it would feel smaller as an adult, but it doesn’t.”
Mycroft smiled. “The collection has grown. There are over 110,000 artifacts now. In fact, this is the largest collection of Egyptian antiquities outside Cairo.”
They moved slowly from room to room, seeing sarcophagi, colossal statues, massive busts, and beautiful paintings. The eventually arrived at Mycroft’s favorite exhibit.
“The Rosetta Stone,” he intoned reverently. “The method by which we deciphered the Egyptian hieroglyphs. The part that appears similar to Arabic, but is not actually related, is Demotic script. It was used prior to Coptic script, and was sometimes referred to as ‘cursive Coptic.’ Using the Greek and prior knowledge of Coptic script from the Christian era, it was decoded by French scholars who had taken the stone during the Napoleonic conquest. Once it was seen that they detailed the same information, it was extrapolated that the hieroglyphs were the very same words. It was put forward by one scholar that the symbols could be phonetic, and that those surrounded by an oval, which is called a cartouche, were proper names. The entirety of the pictographic writing system, from the earliest days of the kingdoms to the fall of Egypt, has been revealed by this one piece of stone.”
Greg smiled at Mycroft’s understated awe. “Is that every hieroglyph?”
Mycroft shook his head. “No, but the hieroglyphs here allowed later scientists and archaeologists to find the meanings of the unknown glyphs from context.”
“Amazing.” Greg wasn’t looking at the stone.
They saved perusal of the mummies until last. “These mummies are from the Cult of the Dead, and seen as highly collectable. During the late 19th and early 20th centuries, it was popular for the wealthy to acquire mummies and have unwrapping parties in their homes. It was nearly an expectation that an upper-class family have some form of Egyptian artifact on display in the parlour to provide proof of social status. Not surprisingly, there was a robust trade in counterfeits.”
The final room they entered contained a reconstructed gravesite, with a mummy in an awkward position rather than lain out to fit in a beautiful coffin. “What happened to this guy?”
With a chuckle, Mycroft explained. “’This guy’ is a pre-dynastic mummy from over 5000 years ago, before the Egyptian kingdoms seen in pictures and films were born. He was never in a sarcophagus, and his body either curled in death or he was disposed of in a less-than-respectful manner. The extremely dry conditions of the desert preserved him. To put that in perspective, he lived when Stonehenge was being built. In fact, a population of wooly mammoths still existed when this man lived.”
“The last surviving population of mammoths has been dated to 4000 years ago on an island in the Arctic Ocean in what is not far from the Siberian coast.”
“Were Irish Elk alive then?” For some reason, Greg had always been fascinated by their giant antlers.
Mycroft smiled. “No, the last known population died out around 7700 years ago in Siberia.”
“You do know everything.”
“It seems that way until you begin discussing sports.”
Greg laughed. “I think I can overlook that in our relationship.”
They returned to the first floor to gain entrance to the collection storage. “One moment while I text Elizabeth.”
Within moments, a young woman who exemplified the term “nerd” opened the door at the end of the hallway they’d traveled down. She even had her glasses taped together. “Mr. Holmes! It’s lovely to see you again! Who is your guest?”
“My boyfriend, Greg.” They shared a smile. Greg felt warm all over.
“Wonderful! Please, come in. Dr. Harper will be thrilled to see you.”
The storage room, or rather, warehouse, was one of the most organized places Greg had ever seen. Everything was labeled. “I wish our evidence room was this orderly.”
They were soon approached by a diminutive gentleman with wild white hair. “Mr. Holmes! So lovely to see you, sir. I have a surprise for you that you will not believe!”
Mycroft laughed. “What perfect timing on my part, then. Please, meet my boyfriend, Greg Lestrade.”
The elderly archaeologist shook Greg’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you, young man. You’ve an interest in Egypt?”
Greg was amused by being referred to as a young man, but age was relative. “I do. Mycroft has been telling me more about the exhibits than I thought it was possible to actually know.”
“Hah! This boy knows everything about everything. But come this way, you’ll never believe it, but a patron to the museum passed away and the heirs left us a collection of Egyptian antiquities that I’m just beginning to catalogue!”
They followed Dr. Harper through the maze of cases and crates to a workspace with large benches and stools, and truly excellent lights. Beautiful bowls, jars, and small carvings covered the surface. Greg was drawn to a glossy black cat decorated with gold and jewels. “Wow, this is so small, but so detailed.”
Mycroft joined him. “Cats were first domesticated in Egypt, it was a symbiotic relationship as they controlled the rodent population, and people began to feed them. Cats were considered descendants of the goddess Bastet.”
“It’s rare to see such a small statue with so much decoration,” Dr. Harper stated with enthusiasm. “The owner clearly had a great devotion to Bastet, the beaded collar she’s wearing has the craftsmanship of a royal piece.”
Greg moved down a bit to an array of matching jars and dishes—and what looked like a lady’s make up compact. “Are these for make up?”
“Indeed they are! And for skin creams and things. We’ve found residue from numerous cosmetics, oils, and lotions inside items like these. This set is incredibly complete and in amazing condition. Look at the painting on the compact, it’s exquisite.” He handed Mycroft a small lighted magnifier.
“This is Bastet in her human form,” Mycroft told Greg as he passed him the magnifier. “She appears as a woman with the head of a black cat, with a luxurious mane and golden collar.”
“And a lioness and a leopard!” Dr. Harper exclaimed. “I’ve never seen a compact so well preserved.”
Greg chuckled at the other man’s excitement. “It’s nice to know that women in ancient Egypt weren’t so different from women in London today.”
“This would have been an Edwardian woman’s ultimate expression of wealth and education,” Dr. Harper continued. “It looks like it was plucked straight from the dressing table of an Egyptian princess.”
“Have you translated this papyrus yet?” Mycroft asked, pointing to a fragile looking page with beautifully painted borders and hieroglyphs.
“Elizabeth did, it’s the recipe for a scented lotion with sandalwood oil and honey. It may have once been in these jars. There are several more, all with beauty tips and ingredient lists.” Dr. Harper hurried around them to a wooden case with velvet-lined compartments. “And look at this, a true treasure of well-preserved jewelry!”
Greg and Mycroft bent over the case as Dr. Harper raised the glass lid. “This piece is especially interesting,” he said, pointing to a collar-like necklace with green and gold beads surrounding a small gold disk, with a bejeweled ankh hanging below. “We’ve never seen one of these outside of Egypt. Green is not as common as blue or red beading, and the smaller size of the sun disk is unusual.”
“It seems a little small for a woman to wear, doesn’t it?”
“You’re correct, Mr. Lestrade, it’s intended for a child. We seldom find jewelry intended for children.”
“This is truly an amazing collection, Dr. Harper,” Mycroft commented. “I’ve never seen so many things belonging to a woman in one place in my life, unless you count my mother’s bathroom counter.”
Greg laughed at Mycroft’s joke. “I have a question, Dr. Harper.”
The old man practically beamed. “Of course, of course.”
“With as well-preserved and unusual as these things are, don’t you wonder if they’re, um, fake?”
Greg had expected the archeologist to be offended, but he just laughed. “Of course, they’re all fake! Pure Edwardian counterfeiting. Very, very well done, in fact, the firm that appraised this collection was fooled. The previous owners had no idea. I wondered if you’d guess it.”
Mycroft laughed while Greg gaped. “It was the compact that clinched it. The hinge is too modern.”
“They were expertly aged. And the jewelry was made with period gold, probably melted down and reused from less interesting artifacts that grave robbers had smuggled into England.”
“For the Witherspoon Collection, I presume?”
Dr. Harper nodded at Mycroft, then turned to Greg. “Next year, we’re introducing a display specifically of forgeries, good and bad. This will be the centerpiece. My associate, Dr. Witherspoon, was so thrilled with this collection that she jumped up and down.”
Greg grinned. “I love it.”
They followed Dr. Harper and his intern, Elizabeth, all over the warehouse, looking at drawers of Nubian wigs, mummified animals, and priceless jewelry. When Dr. Harper excused himself to take a phone call, Elizabeth motioned for them to follow her.
“This is a really special collection of items that Dr. Harper pretends doesn’t exist. It’s part of the hazing process for new interns, too.” She pulled out a deep drawer and lifted a heavy wooden crate out of it. Greg looked at Mycroft, but he looked equally baffled. The watched as she opened it. They peered inside.
Elizabeth burst into giggles, her face bright red. “Yes! When someone new starts, we always tell them to come to aisle 57, drawer 12d, crate 3 and they always get embarrassed!”
Greg looked at Mycroft again, who was nearly as crimson as their tour guide. “I’m sure it’s a very effective method of embarrassing new people.”
“Dr. Witherspoon collects them from all over the world. These are just the ones from Egypt.”
Greg attempted to smother laughter at the look on Mycroft’s face, but was unsuccessful. “That’s hilarious.”
“There are so many historical sexual objects found in archeological excavations, and they never see the light of day! It’s a shame, really.”
“I can’t really picture those out in the main museum,” Greg laughed. “Maybe there should be a sex museum.”
“Good lord,” Mycroft muttered. “Thank you, Elizabeth, I think we’ve see quite enough.”
She giggled more as she put the crate back in the drawer.
Mycroft turned away from the chortling intern to face Greg. “Dinner?”
Greg squeezed Mycroft’s upper arm. “Sure.”
They said their goodbyes with gratitude to Dr. Harper and Elizabeth (who was still giggly), and headed back to the little office. Mycroft had stopped blushing by the time they got there. Greg tugged him close by his hands, then put his arms around him. “Thank you, love, that was amazing.”
Mycroft returned his embrace happily. “It was my pleasure.” He brought his lips to Greg’s, and they shared a sweet kiss.
“What would you like for dinner?” Mycroft asked as they donned their coats and scarves.
“Not sure. I could go for just about anything.” He was hungry enough that pretty much everything sounded good.
“I know that I usually take you to very formal restaurants, but would you be opposed to one that is less so? There is an Indian restaurant that has the most amazing curry not terribly far from here, but it is a very casual establishment.”
Greg gave Mycroft a look. “Mycroft. Seriously. Look who you’re talking to.”
Mycroft chuckled. “I didn’t want to assume.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t question your devotion to me if we don’t go someplace fancy. Is it within walking distance?”
“I would be if it wasn’t so abominably cold and wet,” Mycroft complained. “I’ll text my driver.”
“You do have an umbrella.”
Mycroft tapped said umbrella against the floor. “It doesn’t make the out of doors any warmer, just drier.” He looked up from his phone. “Let us depart.”
Greg leaned close and kissed him. “I love you.”
“I love you too, dearest.”
Dinner was at a place Greg had been to a dozen times, and it went beyond casual to “hole-in-the-wall” which seemed vaguely embarrassing for Mycroft. “I normally get it as takeaway.”
“Then let’s eat at home.”
In the car on the way back to the flat Mycroft had to take a call, so Greg cradled the takeaway in one hand and pulled out his mobile with the other. Unable to resist he Googled “ancient dildos”. He couldn’t decide which was better, the matter-of-fact Wikipedia page, or the images.
Greg looked up. “No problem. Hey, look at this.” He held up his phone screen to show off the array of stone, wood, and leather sex toys.
“Oh good lord, Greg,” Mycroft laughed.
“Do you have to go in to work?”
“No, the matter was easily resolved by phone.”
“Good, this is too much curry for just me,” Greg teased.
Back at the flat, Greg got out dishes while Mycroft opened the bags and containers. “Do you like samosas? Because if you don’t, I can inhale them.”
“I do like samosas,” Mycroft replied. “I’ve made them before. They’re also popular in eastern Africa.”
“They’re very popular in the Lestrade household. Luckily I’m the only one in my household so I get to eat them all.”
“What would you like to drink with this?” Mycroft opened the refrigerator. “It appears that my housekeeper saw to your beverage needs as well as mine.”
“What’d she get?” Greg peeked around his boyfriend. “Newcastle? Excellent.”
Mycroft selected a bottle of the ale as well as a sparkling water for himself. “This is my favorite water,” he commented.
“That sounds really funny.”
“It does. But this is sparkling water with blood orange juice, and I’m quite fond of it. It compliments curry and tikka masala especially well.”
“Can I ask you a favor?” Greg gave Mycroft his most winning smile.
Mycroft cocked an unimpressed eyebrow. “You can always ask.”
“Can we eat in the sitting room and watch telly? That’s the only way to eat takeaway curry.”
“I suppose that would be acceptable.”
They settled onto the sofa with dinner, and Mycroft turned on the telly. “Any preference of what to watch?”
Mycroft put on Death at a Funeral, and they happily reveled in the comic misfortunes of others while eating excellent Indian food. By the end, Greg was stretched out on the sofa with his head pillowed on Mycroft’s lap (made all the better by Mycroft running his fingers through his hair). He was hovering between drowsy and aroused by the stimulation. When the film credits rolled, Mycroft tapped him on the nose.
“You’ll have to move, dearest, if I’m to stop the film.”
Greg stretched, and shifted a bit. “What if I don’t want to?”
“You are ridiculous.”
He moved, and pressed his mouth against Mycroft’s crotch, garnering a surprised shout. “What if I want to get you hard without moving?” He exhaled warm breath and felt a gratifying twitch.
“Greg,” Mycroft groaned, and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Do you think I can do it?”
“Let’s not find out.”
“I’d much rather your head was in my lap sans trousers.”
Greg sat up kissed his boyfriend deeply. “I like this idea.” He levered himself off the sofa and held out a hand to Mycroft. “Let’s go to bed.”
By the time they made it into the sheets, both of them were panting and desperate. Greg pulled Mycroft down on top of him.
“I want to ride you,” Mycroft gasped rocking his hips and driving Greg crazy.
“Want me to lick you open? Fuck you with my tongue?” Greg punctuated his question with a raised eyebrow and a lascivious smile.
Mycroft was shocked and vaguely disturbed, but couldn’t deny that it sounded very…pleasurable.
Greg grinned at Mycroft’s wide-eyed-but-turned-on look. “Never done that before?”
Mycroft shook his head mutely.
“Lay on your stomach. Here, put a pillow under your hips.”
Mycroft took the proffered pillow and settled in the approximate center of the bed. At Greg’s nudge, he spread his legs.
Kneeling between Mycroft’s legs, looking at his beautiful arse, Greg couldn’t help but feel a little thrill that he’d be the first to worship his body this way. Annoyed that none of his other lovers had, but thrilled that he was getting the opportunity to blow Mycroft’s mind. He ran his nails up the backs of those pale thighs, and watched goosebumps rise on his skin. Greg stretched to cover Mycroft’s body with his own, kissing the back of his neck. “You’re so gorgeous,” he whispered. “This feels really, really, good, but if you don’t like it, just tell me.”
Mycroft nodded against the pillow. “I love that you always ask me,” he murmured. Greg always let him have the control he needed. He never assumed that just because he liked something that Mycroft would. There was never any pressure with Greg. He felt warm lips on the back of his neck again.
“Always, Mycroft. Always.” Greg kissed down onto his shoulders. “God you’re amazing. I was never turned on by shoulders before.” He continued kisses and nips down his spine. “Your skin is so beautiful, love. You’re so perfect.”
How does he do this? Combine the most precious sentiment and the most sublime pleasure? “Greg,” he breathed out, hoping he’d understand everything he couldn’t say.
“I know,” he felt Greg murmur against his skin.
When he reached the cleft of Mycroft’s arse (how did he get freckles on his arse?), Greg moved back so that he spread him open, rubbing the smooth, wet skin with his thumbs. “Look at you, so wet for me,” he murmured. He kissed those pale, freckled cheeks. “Your arse is a work of art.”
When Mycroft felt Greg’s lips on his bottom, he gasped. He’d never really contemplated the feeling of being kissed in that area. It was…odd. But nice. And Greg was massaging the inside of his cheeks, and it was soothing.
There, he’s relaxed. Greg licked very lightly at the top of the cleft, moving down slowly. Mycroft’s gasp was lovely. He spread his cheeks a bit more, licking more firmly down to just shy of his entrance. He skipped over the pucker, instead tonguing the smooth skin behind his balls. Greg heard another delightful gasp as he slowly dragged his tongue up toward his actual goal. He teased the tight ring with just the tip of his tongue, and felt Mycroft’s full-body jerk accompanied by a surprised shout.
“Good or not good?” Greg asked.
Mycroft took a few breaths. “Good,” he whimpered. “So good.”
“I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.” He spread Mycroft again, and licked from behind his balls to the top of his cleft. He swirled his tongue around that tight, pink pucker, then pressed his tongue the center, moving it just a bit. Mycroft cried out again.
“Greg,” he wailed.
“More.” Mycroft’s tone bordered on begging.
“Your wish is my command,” Greg teased. He slid his tongue over Mycroft’s entrance, tonguing the center of the tight ring and dipping his tongue just inside. A continuous stream of whimpers, moans, and gasps was coming from the head of the bed.
“Greg--” It was a moan turning into a whimper.
“Do you like it, love? Feeling my tongue in your arse?”
The response was a high-pitched sob.
Deciding that it was time to drive Mycroft mad, Greg teased him for a just a moment not touching his entrance at all, then plunged his tongue deep into his arse, curling up the tip, then slowly pulling it out. The scream he got in response was gratifying, so he did it again.
“Greg! Greg, stop!”
He stopped. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong, love?” Dear god, what did I do?
“I--” Mycroft was panting. “I’m going to orgasm if you keep going, and I want you inside of me.”
That’s a relief. “Still wanna ride me, or do you want me to fuck you like this?”
As tempting as it was to have Greg take him from behind and pound him into the headboard, Mycroft knew he wouldn’t last a minute like that. “I want to ride you,” he replied breathlessly.
Greg slowly kissed his way up Mycroft’s spine. “I love it when you ride me,” he whispered. He did. Watching Mycroft’s face as he took his pleasure—it was breathtaking. He knew that Mycroft needed to have control sometimes, and was always willing to give it to him. He moved off of his lover, and dropped down on his back.
Mycroft slowly lifted himself from his prone position. “That was indescribable,” he whispered, opening the drawer for lubricant. Pouring some into his palm, he looked down at Greg. “But now I nearly mad with wanting you.” He smoothed the liquid onto Greg’s cock, then straddled him.
“Sure you’re ready?”
“God, yes,” Mycroft answered, and slowly sank down on to Greg’s cock. “That feels incredible.”
“You feel incredible,” Greg groaned. He usually got Mycroft looser than this before fucking him.
It wasn’t long before Mycroft established a rhythm, bracing his hands on Greg’s chest. “I love you,” he panted. He’d never gotten to say it during sex before.
“Oh god, I love you, Mycroft,” Greg moaned, gripping his hips and driving up into him. God, Mycroft was gorgeous. No one else ever got to see this, this passionate side that he kept hidden so well. “I love you,” he repeated. He never wanted to stop saying it.
Greg’s declaration was very affecting. “I’m close,” he whispered.
Greg took a hand from Mycroft’s hip and wrapped it around his cock. “I want to feel you come.” He stroked Mycroft the way he knew he liked it. “I want to watch you come on my chest,” he whispered.
Greg’s dirty mouth always tipped him over the edge. Mycroft cried out as his orgasm ripped through him. He could feel Greg still moving in him for a moment or two before he, too, reached orgasm. Heedless of the mess, he collapsed forward onto Greg’s chest.
The feeling of Mycroft draped over his chest in post-orgasmic bliss never got old. He ran his hands up and down his love’s back. After a few moments, it because obvious why Mycroft was continuing to press his face into Greg’s neck.
“I’m not going to try to kiss you.”
Mycroft relaxed. “I didn’t want to ruin the moment.”
Greg chuckled. “No, I get it. My mouth was on your arse.”
“And in it. That was… Thank you.” He pushed himself up. “I would like to reciprocate at some point.”
“That would be amazing.”
Mycroft moved off of Greg. “Come, let’s clean up, I want to kiss you, and perhaps not lay in a pool of ejaculate.”
“I love it when you refuse to use common slang for stuff. I can see the effort you put into saying ‘fuck’ or ‘come.’”
There are times when ‘fuck me’ is too appropriate not to use it. And none of the more proper words for the penis are at all sexy. Can you imagine how referring to your turgid member instead of hard cock would turn satisfying sex into a fit of giggles?”
Laughter exploded out of Greg. “Please never call my dick a member. That’s just weird. What’s it a member of?”
“I’ve often wondered that myself. It’s referred to in that manner in vintage erotica and it is nearly always ridiculous.”
Greg walked over to the sink as Mycroft started the shower. “Vintage erotica?”
“I have quite a collection.” Mycroft turned away. He hated seeing someone use mouthwash. “I found a volume in a lot of antique books I purchased at an estate sale.”
“Is the fact that they’re old how you convince yourself they’re not romance novels?”
“Hush.” Mycroft stepped into the shower. “Some of them have illustrations.” He lifted his face to the spray, not wanting to watch tooth-brushing either.
“Show me sometime?” Greg stepped into the shower and grabbed Mycroft’s fancy face wash. He’d been forced to admit that using it instead of soap made his face feel nice and his skin look better. He’d actually let Mycroft buy him some for his own flat.
“Of course. Volumes from India are very explicit. I learned to read several Indian languages so that I could translate them.”
Greg rinsed his face and turned to Mycroft. “Am I kissable?”
Mycroft made a show of inspecting his face, turning Greg side to side with hands on his jaw. “I suppose if I must.” He put his arms around his neck and pressed his lips to Greg’s.
Humming into the kiss, Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft. He touched his tongue to his love’s bottom lip, and made a sound of pleasure as their tongues slid together. Mycroft’s kissed were meant to be treasured and cherished. God, he loved this man.
Mycroft pulled away too soon by Greg’s reckoning. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, dearest, at least nothing with you. I simply feel a strong need to, ah, wash.”
Greg immediately understood. They scrubbed up and got out of the shower.
“Do you think it would be unnecessarily extravagant to invest in heated floors and a heated towel rack in here?”
“Those exist?” Greg asked, looking at Mycroft’s pale goosebumps.
Mycroft chuckled. “Yes.”
“That sounds amazing.” They hurried out of the bathroom and into cozy pajamas. “I wouldn’t object to it being warmer in here.”
“It is chilly, I’m not sure why.” Mycroft pulled up the app that controlled all of the household settings. “Ah, I failed to change the heat settings. I simply over-rode the commands to warm up the flat yesterday, without changing from my ‘travel’ program to my ‘home’ program. Allow me to adjust.”
“There’s an app for your heat. I should have guessed.”
Mycroft smiled at Greg. “It can control anything in the flat. I most often use it to turn on the lights before I open the door. You can use it on your mobile as well.”
Greg just looked at him. “Every time I look at you, I’m amazed that someone as incredible as you decided I was worth knowing. And you could love me.”
“It’s is who is amazed, Greg. You are a warm, caring man, not to mention handsome, who could have any man or woman you chose. And you chose a cold, awkward, balding prat who is working himself into an early grave. You are eminently loveable, dearest, I had no hope of resisting. How you can love me is baffling.”
Greg had moved to stand in front of Mycroft as he spoke. “I knew that underneath the ice there was a man worthy of my heart and soul,” he replied with a soft smile. He pulled Mycroft close. “It was that first real smile, love. I knew it then.”
Mycroft smiled and wound his arms around Greg’s shoulders. “You told the absolute stupidest joke I had ever heard, expressed the most genuine kindness I had ever received, and smiled like I was the most amazing thing you’d ever seen. I was helpless to resist your charm.”
“I’m glad I was so charming,” Greg joked with the cheeky grin, but his face grew serious after a moment. “It was hard while Kristen and I were fighting to keep our relationship platonic. I wanted you, and needed your support, and I didn’t want to ruin what we had. But it was hard.”
Mycroft tightened his arms around Greg, holding him close and running a hand through his damp hair when Greg pressed his face into his shoulder. “I know. It was hard not to take advantage. All I wanted was to hold you. I’m very good at not acting on emotion, but I still felt the attraction, and I have cared for you for quite some time. I knew it wasn’t right, though, for either of us.” He kissed the side of Greg’s head. “I love you, I’m so happy to have you now.”
Greg pulled back and pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s lips. “I love you. I’m glad we waited.” He kissed him again. “Okay, enough of that.”
“Yes. Would you like to adjourn to the sofa with a drink, and perhaps another film?”
“That sounds fabulous, but there’s a pretty significant chance that I’ll fall asleep before the bottom of the glass.”
Mycroft chuckled. “It is also likely that I will fall asleep.”
“Let’s go sleep through a movie.”
Mycroft is quite the know-it-all, isn't he? I had to do a lot of research for that scene! Dr. Sayed, Dr. Harper, and Elizabeth are completely imaginary, and I have no idea if there is an Egyptian dildo collection, but there should be. Seems like something Greg would be amused by.
I consulted 3 websites that agreed that Newcastle Brown Ale is the best English ale that Americans should try. Mycroft is having my favorite San Pellegrino water. I will fight Greg for those samosas just fyi. I actually like the Ethiopian ones better than Indian.
I deliberately chose Death at a Funeral because Rupert is in it. Next time they'll watch something with Mark in it.
Mycroft was having his second cup of tea when he received Greg’s text.
I can hear the rain and ice pounding on the windows and it feels 10 degrees colder in her than last night. – G
Mycroft chuckled. The weather had also inspired his decision to go in at 7:00 rather than 5:30.
I take it that you’re not visiting the gym this morning? – MH
God no. – G
When was the last time you went to the gym on a Monday? – MH
I can’t remember. – G
Mycroft laughed softly again. He suspected the answer was actually ‘never.’
Go back to sleep, my love. Do remember to ask about a leave. – MH
I will. Love you. – G
Rinsing his tea cup, Mycroft went back to the bedroom to dress. Though he’d seen Greg off only 10 hours previous, he already wished to see him again. Perhaps if it stops raining we can have lunch together. Or tea.
He was in his office preparing for a meeting when he received a most welcome text.
I’m all yours next week. – G
Mycroft was flooded with relief, excitement, anticipation, and trepidation. One never knew what could happen when so many pheromones were flying about.
I am very pleased to hear that. I will prepare for the event, so to speak. – MH
I love you. I’m excited about this. – G
As am I, dearest. If the rain and ice give us a reprieve, would you care to have lunch at 1:00? – MH
I’d love to. – G
Lovely. I’m off to a meeting, I hope I shall see you later. – MH
Greg’s response was a heart. Mycroft smiled. That man was unreasonably adorable.
Greg was walking back to his office from a trip to the loo when he was assaulted by the unmistakable sound of Sherlock Holmes complaining loudly about his absence. Of course. I’m gone two minutes and he decides to show up.
“Sherlock, John,” he greeted, nodding at both of them. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” He sat behind his desk. A glance out the window showed a distinct lack of rain.
“The Patel case, you need to do a screen for heavy metals in the blood.”
Greg could feel his face forming a pained expression. “Heavy metals. What kind of poisoning are you looking for?”
“Prolonged lead exposure leads to cognitive decline. It’s not unreasonable to believe that he acted out of a semi-demented believe that his wife was an alien that was trying to kill him,” John clarified.
“And why do you suspect this?”
“It was in the paper today. That entire building was cited for dangerous levels of metals. Patel lived there for over 40 years.”
Greg privately loved it when John solved cases instead of Sherlock. “Okay, I’ll send it over to toxicology.”
Sherlock was just opening his mouth when Mycroft walked into the office. Greg shared a soft smile with him before Sherlock groused “Why are you here?”
“Is it inconceivable that I might have business that involves Inspector Lestrade?” Mycroft asked, sharing a coolly amused glance with Greg and John.
Suddenly John’s eyes went wide. “Dear God, it’s Mycroft.”
“Yes, John, it’s obviously Mycroft, really, are your--” Sherlock began with especially intense condescension.
“No,” John interrupted. He looked at Greg. “Your boyfriend. It’s Mycroft.”
Greg’s jaw fell open and he felt his eyes bugging out of his head. “How..?”
“I would never have deduced it if you hadn’t given me all those clues, but the look you gave each other just now, that was love.”
Greg looked at Mycroft, vaguely panicked, but he just smiled. “It appears that our secret has been revealed.”
With a relieved grin, Greg turned back to John. “Yeah, it’s love.”
Sherlock whirled around angrily. “Why? Why do you have to stick your unnaturally large nose into every aspect of my life? It’s bad enough that Lestrade took this ridiculous ‘promotion,’ but now you’re--”
“Sherlock--” John interrupted warningly.
Greg whipped around. “You can stop right there. This has nothing to do with you. Nothing. Believe it or not, Sherlock, you’re not the center of the universe. This promotion? It’s a real promotion, and I earned it. It had nothing to do with you. This relationship? I somehow earned the love of the most brilliant man I’ve ever met. You can take your insults, resentment, and selfish baby whinging, and shove it up your arse.” Greg calmed himself with a force of will. “I’ve known Mycroft for 10 years, Sherlock, and if you think he’s doing this to spite you, you don’t know him as well as I do, and that’s pretty fucking pathetic.”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps I don’t know you, Lestrade. I had no idea that fat, bald--”
Greg saw red. “Get out. Now.” Sherlock attempted to stare him down. “Don’t make me come across this desk and smash your fucking face in. Every one of those officers out there will testify that you started it. Now get out.”
John grabbed Sherlock by the upper arm. “We’re going. Now.” He gave Greg an apologetic look, then shifted his gaze to Mycroft. “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, I’m rather happy for both of you.”
“No need to apologize, John,” Mycroft answered calmly. “Thank you.”
John glanced back to Greg. “I’ll text you later.” Then he physically removed the world’s only consulting arsehole from the office.
Greg walked around the desk and shut the door. Loudly. He turned to his boyfriend and opened his arms. “Come ‘ere.”
Leaning his umbrella against the desk, Mycroft gratefully moved into Greg’s embrace. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Don’t apologize for him. He’s a piece of shit at the best of times. But he’s not going to insult us both and deliberately hurt your feelings in my presence.”
Mycroft continued to press his face to Greg’s neck. “Thank you.” He relished the warm comfort of Greg rubbing his back. “No matter how calm I may seem, he remains one of the few people with the power to hurt me.” He felt Greg’s arms tighten around him.
“I know, love. I can only hope I can convince you he’s wrong.” He pulled back a little so he could press a kiss to Mycroft’s cheek. “You’re the sexiest man I’ve ever had the pleasure to know intimately. Just seeing you saunter in here in your bespoke suit turns me on. You’re even irresistible when you’re bossing me around. There has never been anyone, ever, that could compare to you. I love you, and I get to call you mine, and I’m the luckiest man alive.”
Mycroft pulled back to meet Greg’s warm, loving brown eyes, and saw only honesty there. He tried to suppress the tears Greg’s kindness evoked, but a few traitorous drops rolled down his cheeks. Greg brushed them away.
“Don’t let him make you cry, love.”
“It’s the comfort, actually, you put salve on the wound and the tears got out.”
Greg smiled sadly. “I’ll try to help it at least scab over.”
That pulled a surprised laugh from Mycroft. “You’re altogether wonderful, Greg. I’m the luckiest man alive, I think.” He leaned in to give him a brief kiss.
“The two luckiest blokes on the planet.” Greg pulled away to get his goat and scarf. “Lunch at your club?”
“God, yes. Private room. Tea. Sofa.”
Greg chuckled. “I thought a cuppa might be on your mind.” He opened the office door and guided Mycroft through with a hand on his lower back.
Mycroft froze at the gentle touch. He looked over his shoulder.
“Cat’s out of the bag.”
He nodded and enjoyed being escorted out of New Scotland Yard with Greg’s hand essentially announcing their intimacy. It might cause complications in the future, but for now, it was wonderful.
In the car, Mycroft pulled Greg close for a much more thorough kissing than in the office. He only pulled back when oxygen became a concern.
It took Greg a moment to open his eyes. “Wow. That was a significantly better hello than earlier.”
Mycroft’s flushed face showed that he concurred. “Quite. I had intended to surprise you in your office, sans younger sibling.”
“The effort is dually noted. I do have question, though.”
“What is that?”
“Are you upset that we’re out in the open? They heard everything.” He was thinking of Sally in particular.
Mycroft looked down for a moment. “I do have some concerns.” He lifted his head. “You could be the target of a bureaucratic enemy. My reputation could be tarnished.” A slow smile spread across his features. “I’m ecstatic.”
Greg grinned. “So am I.” He cupped Mycroft’s cheeks. “I want to shout it from the rooftops.” He smacked a kiss on those lips he loved so much.
Mycroft laughed and pulled away. “Perhaps not that.”
The car slowed and stopped at the Diogenes. “Here, though, we must be discreet.”
“Of course. There’s a time and a place, etc, etc.”
Mycroft felt much more centered after a cup of tea and an excellent slice of roast with Yorkshire puddings. And leaning against Greg on the sofa had him nearly back to normal.
“This is going to cause a problem, though.”
“Where going to have to go to each other’s Christmases.”
His head dropped back against Greg’s shoulder. “Oh, good Lord.”
“My mum and sister at dying to meet my mysterious secret boyfriend.”
“Sherlock has no doubt informed Mummy of our relationship and she will expect us to attend dinner.” Mycroft sat up. “Sherlock may have visited Mummy without my being aware, but I’ve avoided Christmas for the last 7 years.”
Greg rose with Mycroft. “I always go home for at least one day. Let my mum fuss and make a dinner. She usually has good taste in gifts.”
Slipping into his coat, Mycroft glanced over at Greg. “I’d much rather spend the time with you.”
Greg bundled up for the dash from the door to the car. “Maybe we can. Go to one family for Christmas Eve, go to the other for Boxing Day, spend the holiday just you and me.”
“What a lovely solution, dearest.” They made their way silently down the hall. Outside, Mycroft opened the door for Greg. “I find myself cautiously optimistic about this plan.”
They shared a sweet kiss before Greg got out of the car at NSY. “Love you.”
“I love you so very dearly, Greg. Thank you.”
“Are you working late? I can make us dinner.”
“I will attempt to clear my schedule.”
“Good.” Greg leaned in for another kiss, mentally planning his text to Andrea to help with that.
On the lift, Greg braced himself for the trip to his office. He’d ignored the looks on the way out, but he knew he was going to be hounded by Sally, and gawked at by everyone else.
The doors opened. Head high, Lestrade. No shame in loving the man.
As he walked to the office, most of the team was pointedly not starring, but the unnatural silence told him he’d been the hot topic in the hour he’d been gone. He could almost hear the heads turning to stare at him. The sanctuary of his office was so close yet so far.
Before he’d even taken off his coat, he heard Sally’s high-heeled shoes clicking out of her office and growing steadily louder as she approached her target.
“Hi, Sally,” he greeted before she’d even stepped across the threshold. He turned as she was closing the door.
“You’re seriously dating the Freak’s brother?”
Greg gritted his teeth. “His name is Mycroft. He has an identity outside of being Sherlock’s brother.”
“He always looks like he just sucked a lemon. Even his smiles are nasty.”
Greg narrowed his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. “I almost assaulted Sherlock for insulting him before I threw him out of my office. I won’t think twice about throwing you out, too.” We walked around the desk and threw himself into the chair.
Sally’s eyes widened a bit. “He’s so – um, he seems so cold.”
“Seems. You’ve only every seen him while he’s representing the British government, he’s always professional. Or when he’s spying on Sherlock. You can’t be what he is, and have that dickhead for a brother, without developing the ability to look like nothing affects you. You know how being impassive works, Sally.” She didn’t look convinced. “He’s not looking for friends when he’s working. He’s deliberately putting people off. Same thing Sherlock does, but more understated.”
She stared at Greg as she lowered herself into the chair across the desk. “He’s so posh.”
A smile pulled at the corners of Greg’s mouth. “His suits cost more than I make in a month. And, dear god, you should see how many coats he has.”
Sally giggled. “Does he talk like that in bed?”
Laughter exploded out of Greg and he could feel himself blushing. “No. Okay, maybe. Sometimes. But not with that superior attitude. Most of the time. Fuck.”
“Is he any good?”
“Have you ever heard of tact?”
Sally rolled her eyes. “No.” She gave him that sassy brat look that drove Sherlock crazy. “Is he?”
Greg dropped his head into his hands, pretty sure his face was on fire. “Yes. God, yes.”
She laughed. “Never would have guessed. He acts like there’s a stick up his arse.”
“He described himself as ‘emotionally constipated’ once.” Greg giggled along with Sally. “But really, he’s a wonderful boyfriend. Not just in bed.”
“You really love him.”
“I really do. He’s got so many good traits that no one knows about. He’s actually really thoughtful, and affectionate. I never would have guessed it when we first met, but behind the wall he puts up, there’s the sweetest man.” He was fairly sure there were pink hearts dancing around his head.
Sally rolled her eyes. “Gross.”
“There’s a lot more to him than anyone knows. And he loves me more than anyone ever has.”
“Even more gross.”
“Are you two taking the week off together?”
Greg nodded. “Not going anywhere, just spending time away from work.” He jumped when his phone buzzed on his desk.
Please inform Inspector Donovan that you, too, are a lovely boyfriend. – MH
Greg laughed and showed Sally the screen.
The phone buzzed again.
And yes, you’re a brilliant lover. – MH
One more buzz.
And yes, I take you out to dinner, hold your hand, and talk to you every day. – MH
“Fucking Holmeses, he’s as bad as his brother!”
Greg was still processing Mycroft telling Sally that he was a ‘brilliant lover.’ “Smarter, actually. Even better. But he doesn’t use his deductions to insult people. He doesn’t show off just to be a dick.”
“Does he deduce you in bed?”
They both looked at the phone when it buzzed.
When better to utilize my keen observational skills than an intimate interaction? – MH
“Oh Jesus fucking Christ, Holmeses will be the death of me. Go find murderers or something.”
Greg had one of his favorite comfort foods – a creamy chicken and rice casserole with carrots and broccoli – in the oven when he had a knock on the door. He clicked the kettle on, and happily went to let Mycroft in.
His boyfriend had red cheeks and a positively flaming nose. “Jesus, how cold is it outside?”
Mycroft stepped in. “Abominably cold.” He rubbed his freezing nose against Greg’s. “I only had to walk from the kerb to your building.”
“I’ve got the kettle on, you can warm up with some tea.” Greg helped Mycroft out of his coat. “I can’t believe how cold it is, it’s not even December.”
“Climate change,” Mycroft commented as he walked into the kitchen. “That smells lovely.”
“It’s one of my mum’s recipes. Always good on a cold night.” He joined Mycroft by the kettle and wrapped his arms around his waist. He pressed his cheek against his back.
Mycroft relaxed a bit. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Greg moved away when the kettle whistled. “Let me get the milk.” It was kind of amazing that he lived in a world where Mycroft Holmes stood in his kitchen and said “I love you.”
Cup of tea in hand, Mycroft leaned against the counter and watched as Greg pulled the casserole from the oven. “What am I about to be served?”
“We’ve always called it ‘chicken thing’.”
Greg laughed. “It’s chicken, rice, carrots, and broccoli in cream soups. It’s good.”
“I shall have to put my faith in your culinary judgement.”
With a laugh, Greg started scooping the food onto plates. “It’s comfort food, not haute cuisine.”
“It smells quite nice.” Mycroft looked at the plate. “Your plating could be improved.”
“Shut it, this isn’t Top Chef.” He put both plates on the table. “I promise it tastes good enough to make up for how it looks.”
Mycroft cautiously cut into the chicken – cooked perfectly – and scooped up rice.
It was, surprisingly, delicious.
“I told you so,” Greg chuckled.
“Not what I would normally eat, but very good.”
“I don’t make it often since it’s kinda heavy, but it’s fucking cold and it’s been a shit day.”
Mycroft raised his fork in acknowledgement. “Absolutely dreadful.”
“Let’s pretend it didn’t happen. We’ll finish, wash up, and cuddle on the sofa with tea and crap telly.”
“That sounds lovely.” Normally he watched intelligent dramas, but something mindless was very appealing.
They were walking into the sitting room when Greg’s phone chimed.
You and Mycroft? How is he by the way. – JW
Mycroft noticed Greg’s frown. “John?”
Greg nodded. He didn’t have to ask how Mycroft knew.
He’s fine. Yes me and Mycroft. – G
Sherlock hasn’t spoken since we left. – JW
“Sherlock hasn’t spoken. I’m not surprised.”
“Are you reading my mind?”
“No, I’m reading over your shoulder.”
Greg turned his head to see Mycroft had come to stand behind him. “Oh.”
“He may not speak for days.”
Mycroft says he might not talk for days. – G
Terrific. – JW
Is he reading over your shoulder? – JW
They both laughed.
Yeah. – G
Go do couple things and text me tomorrow. – JW
“Cuddling, snogging, you know.”
“Oh, well then, perhaps we should adjourn to the sofa.”
Pub tonight? – JW
Greg groaned. John was really going to want to talk.
Sure mate. I can’t leave to 7. – G
McNelly’s? Or our usual haunt? – JW
Usual. McNelly’s is too far from my flat. – G
I’ll meet you around 7:30. – JW
Got it. – G
Greg stared at his screen for at least two minutes without seeming it. He flipped to his text thread with Mycroft.
Can you talk for a bit? – G
I’ll be back in my office in a few moments and I’ll call you. – MH
When the phone rang he jumped. “Lestrade.” Habit. “Sorry.”
Mycroft chuckled. “Habit, I’m sure. Are you concerned with what you can tell John about us?”
“I swear, you really are psychic.”
“Perhaps I am. Perhaps I know your darkest secrets.”
Greg laughed. “ Up ‘til now, it was my horrible crush on you.”
“I knew it.” Mycroft chucked again. “You may tell John whatever you like.”
“Do you mean that sarcastically?”
“Not at all. I know that John is trustworthy and that you won’t give him embarrassing details of our intimacies.”
“I don’t know,” Greg teased, relieved. “I could tell him about your most twisted fantasies.”
“I don’t believe I have any,” Mycroft laughed. “Stop. I can’t laugh, it’s out of character.”
Greg laughed. “Your minions will think you’re going soft.”
“We can’t have that.”
Greg heard Mycroft’s mobile buzz where it was no doubt sitting on his ink blotter. “Need to go?”
“Yes, unfortunately, I fear that some Americans have done something dreadfully stupid.”
That was a new level of trust. “Love you. Talk later?”
“Of course, my love. Kisses.”
They rang off reluctantly. Greg loved when he could make Mycroft laugh at work, where he was so serious all the time. Sometime I’m going to visit him in his office and thoroughly snog him.
Greg spotted John in a booth when he waked in. He’d already ordered a pint and was looking at his mobile. “Hey John.”
“Sit. I ordered some chips, too. Starving.”
“Ta, mate, that sounds amazing.” Greg shrugged out of his coat and slid into the booth. “Do you want to interrogate me now, or can I order a drink first?”
John laughed. “Order a pint. You’ll talk more if you’re drunk.”
Greg signaled a server and ordered his usual. “Do I need to worry that you’ll get me too drunk for work tomorrow?”
“God, no, I don’t want that many details.”
They chatted about Sherlock being a dick until Greg’s beer and John’s chips were delivered to the table. “So when did this start?”
Greg took a long drink. “I’ve been attracted to him forever. I know your dick flatmate picks at him for his weight, but he’s dropped 4 or 5 stone since I first got kidnapped by him.” Greg squirted catsup on his side of the chip basket. “He was still my type then.”
“But of course, you were married. What makes him your type?”
He pondered it. “Very confident, very commanding, sarcastic, blue eyes, tall.”
“That could also describe Sherlock, you know.”
Greg chuckled and sipped his beer. “Can’t deny that I’ve thought about it. He tried to snog me more than once when he was high. It was tempting, but he doesn’t bathe regularly when he’s using.”
John laughed. “’My body is transport’ my arse.” He popped a chip in his mouth.
“I don’t know if he remembers. Mycroft is a much better kisser.”
“Attraction from day one. Okay, when did it become emotional?”
Greg took another long drink. “I know it’s hard to believe, but when Sherlock was ‘dead’ he was really comforting. I started to really need him when my divorce happened right after the inquest. He was there for me, all the time. We’d become friends before then, but things got very intimate. After my divorce, though, we gradually got more and more flirty.” Greg ate a couple chips. “We completely stopped having a ‘reason’ to see each other, we just got together all the time.”
John pointed a chip at him. “And then Sherlock came back.”
“But nothing changed for us. We were so close that him coming back was just a relief.”
“Weren’t you pissed you’d been lied to?”
“A little, yeah. But Mycroft had already told me there was a sniper on me and I was dead if he didn’t jump. I was relieved that he didn’t really die to save me.”
John glowered over the rim of his pint glass. “He still could have sent me a fucking letter.”
“You would have tried to find him, though. You would have gotten killed, or blown his cover, or who knows what. He wanted to keep us all safe and this was the only way he could do it.”
John continued to look extremely disgruntled.
“What’s done is done, mate. Can’t go back in time and change it.”
With a sigh, John nodded. “You’re right. I don’t know if I’ll ever really, completely, get over it.”
“Don’t let it eat you, John. Move forward. Don’t hang on to the past.” John looked uncomfortable.
“This is about you. And Mycroft. Not me.”
“Shut it. When did you get together?” John drank deep.
“Literally the day before you texted me and I was on a date.”
“Details.” John took another drink and Greg mirrored him without thinking about it.
“I just went over to his flat and basically said ‘I want you I don’t care that you’re an alpha.”
“But of course, he’s not.”
“Sherlock told you?”
John shook his head. “No, actually. I can tell. His pheromone mask is very similar to Sherlock’s scent. I probably know his scent better than anyone, so I could filter it out and detect Mycroft’s real scent. I’ve never told him I know his secret.”
“That makes sense. His alpha scent was just as hot to me, though. I always want him.”
“Never would have guessed. I take he’s more pleasant around you than he is me?” John ordered another pint when the server approached, so Greg did, too.
“Believe it or not, he has a good sense of humor, very dry. He’s actually very considerate and appreciates everything I do for him. And he’s cuddly.” Greg ate a chip, but it was disappointingly cold. “But historically, he’s been a total dick anytime work was involved. He stopped being as much of a dick as we got to be friends.”
“How did you even get to be friends?” John picked up a soggy chip. “That’s not terribly appetizing.”
Greg thought back to that glorious first smile. “I could tell that is ‘iceman’ persona was a front. No one could put that much effort into a berk like Sherlock without a great capacity for love. I figured somewhere in his past he’d been hurt so bad he’d written off humanity, so I was always nice to him. Always. Even when he was being a total arse.”
“You’re a better man than I.”
Greg looked down for a moment, remembering. “The first time he smiled at me, John. I think I lost half my heart right then.” He could feel himself blushing. “God. What’s the word Mycroft used? Maudlin. That’s me.”
John laughed. “Terribly maudlin. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mycroft smile.”
“He only smiles at me as far as I can tell. I’d like to change that, y’know? I want him to be happy enough to smile.”
“I never see him when he has much reason to smile since I’m with Sherlock most of those times, and I’m not too chatty when summoned or kidnapped.”
“I hope you can meet him just socially one of these days, and see him acting like an ordinary person.” Greg fished around in the basket for a non-flaccid chip. His mission was unsuccessful.
John chuckled. “I won’t hold my breath.” He drank from his glass. “You already told me you do the dom/sub thing, but now, knowing he’s an omega, that’s wild.”
Greg flushed. “God, it’s hot, though.” He drank beer to try to hide his red cheeks. “Seriously. I’ve never been so well shagged.”
John’s eyes widened. “You…he…”
“I don’t think I’ve ever considered that option.”
“Neither had Mycroft.” Greg laughed at John’s expression. “I’ve blown his mind so many times.”
“Mine, too.” John drained his glass. “I thought I’d had a wild youth.”
Greg grinned. “I think I’ve had sex every way and with every combination of genders that exists. Sometimes with several at once.”
“Too much information!” John exploded with laughter.
Greg started laughing, too. “In public, no less.”
John dropped his head into his hands, still laughing hard. “Jesus Christ.” He looked up, eyes brimming with tears of laughter.
“One time--” Greg started, hardly able to talk for laughing.
“NO!” John put his hands up to block the words. “Dear God, you make me feel like a prude, but that’s sufficient.”
Greg had to wipe his eyes. “I’ll stop.” He kept laughing for a minute before he calmed himself. “No more details.”
John slowly stopped laughing. “Thank you.”
“No details, but we’re both taking next week off for a very obvious reason.”
“Got it. I take it you’d like to keep that between you and me?”
“Please.” Greg poked a cold, floppy chip. “Let’s go get real food, mate. Chinese, maybe? We could take it back to my place and watch telly.”
“Sounds great. But we’re talking a cab, it’s bloody cold.”
“I drove because it’s so bloody cold, no need for a cab.”
“I always forget you have a car.” John buttoned up his coat. “Where do you park it?”
Greg bundled up. This scarf really wasn’t warm enough. “I pay for a spot behind my building. We have a car park the size of a postage stamp.”
“Sounds about right for London.” They both put money on the table. “Shall we?”
Greg gestured for John to go first. “Lead on.” God, it had felt good to tell someone about Mycroft.
John turned as he was pushing the door open. “I’m really happy for you, Greg. If Mycroft loves you as much as you say, I’m glad. You deserve it.”
"Thank you." Greg smiled. “He deserves it, too.”
“I think you’re right.” John nodded. “I mean, he puts up with Sherlock, he deserves something for that.”
Greg laughed. “Definitely.”
"Emotionally constipated" borrowed from Mice. I love that phrase.
Mycroft is mad at Americans again, lol. It's a theme.
We're almost caught up to what I've finished writing. Posts will probably slow down to once a week after the next couple of chapters. I have a pretty demanding muggle job so some days I just can even after work.
Chicken thing is one of my mom's recipes that I modified to make it infinitely better. It's a fat and salt explosion, though, and I don't live in a cold climate anymore, so I haven't had it in ages. I'll be happy to tell you how to make it, it's really good, just ask.
Do any of you collect Asian ball jointed dolls, by chance? I'm a collector and I'm planning several dolls from the show, and I'd be happy to share my Pinterest boards!
Chapter 16: my true)
Friday was slowly crawling by. Greg figured he’d checked his watch 100 times today. He’d been called in on a case – which he’d solved – and he and Mycroft hadn’t gotten to see each other all week. From the times of Mycroft’s ‘good night’ texts, it was clear that his boyfriend was equally swamped, probably so that he could take next week off.
It had been 14 years since he’d shared someone’s heat. It was incredible, but Greg was pretty sure that being middle-aged was going to make the experience more exhausting and painful. God I’m going to ache, he thought. Good thing the endorphins will keep my muscles working right up until I fall over asleep. That’s how you know you’re getting old, you’re thinking about your joints instead of the sex.
He jumped when his phone buzzed in his pocket.
I cannot understand why time moves so abysmally slowly when I’m to see you shortly. – MH
Greg smiled. It’s a conspiracy. Probably Russia. – G He pictured Mycroft smothering laughter.
They would do that. Curse them. – MH
The day is dragging for me too. – G
Would you like to have dinner out this evening? Romantic venue, of course. – MH
Love to. How late do you need to stay? – G
Andrea cleared by schedule, so 6:00. – MH
I can escape at 6 too. Want to rendezvous at your flat? I can drop off my things before we go out. I need a shower. Gregson’s baby drooled all over me. – G
Yes, do shower. Perhaps boil your clothes. – MH
They’ve seen worse. At least she didn’t puke on me. – G Just in case, Greg looked himself over again.
Perish the thought. – MH
Greg frowned. He hadn’t really thought Mycroft was into kids, but it was still a little disappointing. He pushed the thoughts away.
Duty calls, my love. Until tonight. – MH
Love you. – G
Greg stared at his phone. Three hours.
Mycroft sat at his desk, looking down at his mobile. Unable to stop the visions flooding his mind’s eye. Greg, cheerfully bouncing a baby on his hip. Cradling an infant, feeding her. Clapping when she built a tower of blocks. His baby. In his daydream, she had Greg’s hair and eyes, but his fair skin. Freckles on her nose. Soft curls like Sherlock, and like he’d had as a child.
It was painful, physically painful, to entertain these fantasies. He was 43, and even though both male and female omegas could have safe pregnancies well into their fifties, he really felt that it was too late. And it’s not as if I’m parent material. Besides, who is ever both balding and pregnant? It was utterly ridiculous to contemplate.
Even if, and that is a very large if, even if Greg was willing to have a child with me, now would not be the time. He centered himself, and with the ease of practice, stowed the thoughts in the appropriate room of his Mind Palace, to be reviewed at a later date.
He looked up when Andrea tapped on the door. She was holding a file folder that was clearly not his. All of his files were in manila folders. This one was a bright cerulean. “Yes?”
“This is from medical, sir.” She offered him the file.
“Medical?” Mycroft took the file from her hands and flipped it open. It was his own medical file. “Why on earth would they send this?” He thumbed through his last medical record, the exam after retrieving Sherlock from Serbia.
“I don’t know,” Andrea replied, clearly just as baffled. “I’ve never been sent your file, not even when you’ve returned from the field.”
Mycroft examined the folder itself, and noticed a tiny sticky not nearly the same blue of the cover.
Someone has been snooping. Thought you might want to have this for now. – AS
He looked up at Andrea. “Lady Smallwood.”
“I’ll be sure to keep this confidential.”
Mycroft tucked the file into his laptop case. He knew that Andrea was aware that he was an omega, though they had never spoken of it. To anticipate his needs, she needed that information, and she would no doubt take it to her grave.
Who was snooping, though? Someone must suspect his true sex, and wish to exploit it. “Can you review any of my known enemies to see if they’ve done anything obviously intrusive?”
“Consider it done.”
Mycroft put it out of his mind while he reviewed CCTV footage.
Mycroft was sipping an especially nice Oolong when Greg let himself in. He immediately abandoned the tea on the counter to meet his love at the door. When Greg smiled brightly at him, that single stomach butterfly made itself known.
“Hello, love,” Greg greeted, unwinding his scarf from his neck.
“Hello,” Mycroft whispered before stilling Greg’s hands to press their lips together. He pulled away and smiled.
Greg smiled in return. “You look especially handsome tonight.”
Mycroft blushed. He’d put on the midnight blue suit that Greg liked best. It had a pale grey pinstripe, and he’d paired it with a grey shirt and tie. And pocket square of course. “Thank you, dearest.”
Greg took a moment to admire his dashing boyfriend. He unbuttoned his coat. “I don’t know if my clothes are nice enough for us to go out together. Maybe we should just go straight to bed,” he joked.
“I hardly think that could be the case.” Mycroft slid Greg’s coat down his arms. “As always, you are devastating.”
Knowing they’d be going someplace classy, Greg had worn his nice grey trousers with a button up and his favorite green jumper. No one could convince him to wear a tie outside of a courtroom, though.
“I always like you in this jumper,” Mycroft commented.
“Let’s put my coat down so I can snog you more effectively.”
Mycroft chucked and hung Greg’s coat in the closet. “Let’s not ‘snog’ in the doorway when there’s a perfectly serviceable sofa mere steps away.”
“Too far.” Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft’s neck and kissed him. He felt warm arms pull him close and hummed contentedly.
They lost track of time as they kissed, lips and tongues moving together, hands touching gently. This wasn’t foreplay, it was pure affection, shared between them.
Eventually, Greg pulled back. “I love you, Mycroft Holmes.”
“And I, you, Gregory Lestrade.” Mycroft checked his elegant and understated wristwatch. The more modern lines of this suit did not allow for his usual pocket watch. “We do have reservations for 8:00, if you are still so inclined.”
Greg nodded. “Absolutely.” His stomach growled to affirm his decision. They both laughed.
“We have time to stow your belongings and perhaps have tea before we need to leave.”
“Okay. I didn’t bring too much since I figured we’d be in bed a lot of the week.”
Mycroft followed as Greg toted his bag to the bedroom. “I should warn you, if I stop my suppressants tonight, I’ll likely be ill most of tomorrow morning.”
Greg frowned. “How ill? I’ll take care you, no matter what.”
“My digestive system reacts unpleasantly, but I’ll only require a little bit of care, tea, heating pad and the like.”
“Of course.” Greg disappeared into the en suite for a moment. “How long does your heat usually last?”
“If I don’t take my pill tonight, it will begin tomorrow night, and wind down Wednesday evening into Thursday morning.”
Greg nodded. “I’ll try to survive that long,” he teased. “I’m getting slow in my old age.”
“Hardly,” Mycroft laughed. “The flat is stocked and ready. It’s going to be lovely to have you feed me grapes in bed.”
“Anything you want.”
Mycroft pulled him in as he walked past the doorway. “You are far too accommodating. I can be quite demanding and impatient.”
“You’re already demanding and impatient.” Greg put his chin on Mycroft’s shoulder. “I want you to feel worshipped this week. I want you to know how much I love and adore you. I want you to forget anyone else you’ve ever been with.”
Mycroft smiled. “Sharing my heat with the man I love will ensure that I forget anyone else.” He lifted Greg’s head. “You make me feel worshipped quite often. I’m sure this week will reinforce that.”
Greg smiled back. “How do we always get so mushy with each other? It’s kinda gross.”
With a laugh, Mycroft pulled away. “Absolutely revolting.” He headed toward kitchen. “You’ve brought out a level of emotional honesty in me of which I did not believe I was capable.”
“Me, too.” Greg gingerly tapped the kettle to see if it was still hot enough to brew tea. He switched it on. “I was operating on the ‘men don’t talk about their feelings’ theory for years until I decided to open up to you.” He grabbed a cup while Mycroft sifted fresh tea into the diffuser.
“I disagree, you’ve never been reluctant to discuss your work, and have not become hardened and cynical. You’re kind and caring, even to Sherlock, and discuss your concerns with your friends, especially John. You have strong relationships with your family members and I know you speak with your mother often.”
Greg poured boiling water into the cup. “One of Kristen’s chief complaints about me was that I wouldn’t share my feelings with her. I wouldn’t communicate.”
“I would venture to guess that the difference between Kristen and I is the level of trust you have placed in each of us.”
Greg looked up from the steeping tea to meet Mycroft’s eyes. “I don’t know why I didn’t trust her. But I think you’re right.”
Mycroft nobly refrained from listing the numerous reasons for not trusting the former Mrs. Lestrade. “You’re fairly intuitive, one of the reasons you’re so successful as a detective. You no doubt sensed, on some level, that she was not being honest with you.”
Greg shrugged. “I guess you can go 10 years without really knowing someone.” He stood up straight. “That’s the past. Not gonna dwell on it.”
Mycroft touched the side of his cup, and decided to put it in the microwave. “Never tell anyone that I’m doing this.”
“What else do you do if your tea gets cold?” Greg was perplexed.
“Make a fresh cup, of course.” He opened the microwave before it beeped. “This is only acceptable because there isn’t any milk in it.”
Greg laughed. “I promise not to tell the Royal British Tea Society that you heated your tea in the microwave.”
“Best you don’t. Thank you.” Mycroft sipped the freshly refreshed tea.
“Is there a Royal British Tea Society?”
Mycroft chuckled. “Most likely, however, I am not a member.”
They moved to the sofa and relaxed in companionable silence for a few moments, happy just to lean against one another. Mycroft swore he could feel Greg’s contentment as well as his own. “If you were a cat, you would be purring.”
Greg made a rumbly noise with his tongue. “Sometimes it’s nice to just sit here with you.”
“Agreed.” Mycroft set his tea on the coffee table. “We had best leave for the restaurant, dearest.” He leaned in to kiss Greg’s cheek before he stood.
“I’ll put the cups in the kitchen,” Greg offered, talking Mycroft’s cup from the table.
Mycroft mused that Greg was the ideal flatmate before brushing the thought aside. It’s too soon.
They gathered their outerwear and descended to the car park, where one of Mycroft’s cars was waiting.
Dinner was enchanting. The restaurant was very romantic as promised, with dim lighting and warm colors. Greg and Mycroft sat in a banquette booth, close enough to hold hands as they enjoyed wine before the meal. And the meal was a lover’s assortment, Chateau Briand for two, sliced at the table, shared tidbit appetizers and sides served on shared plates; cappuccino with hearts drawn in the foam with dessert. With anyone else Greg would have been horribly embarrassed to eat there, but somehow the lavish meal and hushed atmosphere suited Mycroft perfectly, and seemed completely normal in the context of his romantic gestures. Rather than feeling pressured to act like a knight in shining armour for a date, he felt unbelievably loved. He reflected that Mycroft really was the best boyfriend.
In the car on the drive home Greg cuddled into Mycroft’s side, resting his head on the other man’s shoulder. “Thank you, love. Dinner was amazing.”
Mycroft pressed a kiss to Greg’s temple. “It was my pleasure, dearest.”
“You’re a wonderful boyfriend. You know that, right?”
Chuckling, Mycroft kissed Greg again. “I’m glad I can be a good boyfriend. You are quite wonderful as well.”
I’d marry you tomorrow if you asked, Greg thought. He’d never been so desperately in love with anyone.
Mycroft shifted a bit to rest his head gently against Greg’s. You are the love of my life, I want to grow old with you, his mind whispered.
Neither felt they needed to speak the words. It was in the subtext every time they kissed.
That night they made love slowly, relearning the lines of each other’s bodies, writing words of love on their skin with gentle caresses. Making promises of forever with each touch of their lips. It renewed and strengthened their commitment to each other. As Mycroft moved in him, Greg reflected that no one else could ever be as perfect for him as this man, and understood that his beloved felt the same.
Mycroft woke from a restless sleep in crippling abdominal pain. He tried to breathe through it, not wanting to wake Greg, but he had to run for the loo not a moment later.
Before bed, he’d delicately broached the topic of his pre-heat discomfort, and his number one annoyance – a solicitous lover. “Please, do not feel that I don’t appreciate your intentions,” he’d begged. “But I cannot abide someone hovering as I’m being sick.”
Greg had just chuckled and kissed him. “No problem. I don’t especially like watching someone throw up anyway.”
So now he was retching into the toilet bowl, losing whatever contents his stomach had been carrying. He knew that as soon as his nausea started to abate, he’d be assailed by other, even less pleasant digestive woes. Mycroft was sure he’d woken Greg, but true to his word, his boyfriend was not checking on him or trying to wipe his sweating brow.
Greg listened to the muffled sounds of a very sick Mycroft from bed. He completely understood not wanting attention while puking or whatever. Control.
Eventually he heard the shower followed by teeth being brushed. He watched Mycroft get fresh pants and a shirt by the illumination of the bathroom lights before switching them off and crawling back into bed.
“How bad is it?”
It took Mycroft a moment to answer. “Cramps.”
Greg ran his hand through Mycroft’s damp hair. “Is there anything I can do that won’t be annoying?”
“In the linen cabinet there is a heating pad.”
“I’ll get it. Do you want me to make you some tea?”
“No, I’ll just throw it up.”
Wow, he’s refusing tea, that’s a first. Greg retrieved the heating pad and returned to the bedroom to plug it in. After a moment, he went to the bathroom and got some paracetamol and a glass of water. “Here, love, will this help?” Kristen had always taken it for cramps.
“Yes, actually, thank you.” He took the tablets from Greg and swallowed them.
Greg got back in the bed and lay on his side to face Mycroft. The darkness hid the evidence of his lover’s pain. “I’m sorry you feel so bad.”
“This is the worst of it. Later today I’ll feel fine, and by late afternoon I’ll be begging you to fuck me.”
“We have that to look forward to, I guess. Do you think you can go back to sleep?”
Mycroft nodded even though Greg couldn’t see it. “Once the anti-inflammatories take effect, yes.”
“Good.” Greg scooted closer to kiss Mycroft’s forehead. He yawned even though he was trying to hold it back. “Sorry.”
“Go back to sleep, Greg. I’m fine.”
“And you don’t want me to hover.”
He chuckled. “Got it. Poke me if you need anything.”
Mycroft huffed out a laugh. “You are ridiculous.”
Eventually Mycroft did fall asleep; he was still out like a light when Greg got up around 9:00. My poor love.
After a quick shower and a cup of coffee, Greg peaked in the door to see Mycroft blinking sleepily at his mobile. “Morning, love. Tea?” He got a sleepy smile in return and an outstretched arm, beckoning him. He crossed the room and got back into bed, and Mycroft abandoned his phone to turn over and snuggle into him.
“Tea would be lovely after while. Right now I would like to stay like this for a bit.”
“I’ll never argue with cuddling.” He wrapped his arms around Mycroft and tangled their legs together. “Feeling better?” He felt Mycroft nod against his chest.
“A bit. No longer nauseated, but still a little uncomfortable.”
“More paracetamol with your tea?”
“Yes, and maybe a little breakfast.”
“You got it.” Greg kissed the top of Mycroft’s head. “Love you.”
“I love you, too.” Mycroft rubbed his nose against Greg’s greying chest hair.
They dozed in and out for a while before Mycroft pulled away. “Tea?”
“I’ll go put the kettle on. I was pretty worried last night when you didn’t want tea.”
Mycroft laughed softly as he walked to the bathroom. “That is a metric by which you can judge my level of illness. No tea is the most serious.”
Greg had a steaming cup of Scottish breakfast and a plate of crumpets ready when Mycroft emerged from the bedroom in fresh pajama pants and Greg’s Star Wars shirt. He raised an eyebrow.
That elicited a huge laugh. “You do the cutest things sometimes.” He sat at the breakfast bar with a cup of coffee. “You are the only person I know who has actual crumpets in the kitchen.”
“I like them. Hush.” He spread a tiny bit of butter and strawberry jam on the freshly toasted crumpets. “Try one.”
Greg wrinkled his nose. “Too spongy.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Heathen.”
Greg laughed. “I’ll make toast or something.”
“I see you have been reduced to one word insults this morning.”
Mycroft laughed. “I can expand to multi-word insults if you’d prefer.”
Greg kissed his cheek. “I’ll pass.” He slid off the stool and got bread from the pantry. “But just for shits and giggles, what insult do you have ready for me putting peanut butter and banana slices on this toast?”
“Utterly reprehensible. Disturbingly American. Eminently idiotic.”
Greg exploded with laughter. “The most Mycroft Holmes insults ever.” He spread peanut butter on his toast and began slicing a banana and placing pieces artistically on the top of the spread. “If I was really going to gourmet this toast, I’d also put strawberries on it and sprinkle it with wheat germ.” He looked at Mycroft’s horrified face. “What?”
Mycroft just shook his head. “Well, at least toast with such an appalling variety of toppings is not pedestrian.”
“My best French toast is topped with kiwi, strawberries, bananas, and wheat germ. And maple syrup, of course. But kiwi is hard to find and fucking expensive so it’s pretty rare that I make it.”
“If you made such extravagant French toast, I would try it.”
Greg munched his toast happily. “Thanks.”
After breakfast they put on a mini-series about the War of the Roses that they’d recorded, and snuggled up on the sofa with more tea and coffee. After a few moments, Mycroft began to yawn. “Apologies.”
Greg put his coffee on the table. “Here, give me your tea.” He put it on the table, too. “Take a nap.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?”
Greg stretched out on the sofa and pulled Mycroft down on top of him. “Sleep. You’ll need your strength.”
Mycroft laughed softly and adjusted his position. “Indeed.”
Mycroft woke slowly, sweaty and uncomfortable on the surface upon which he rested, which was not a bed. When Greg’s scent reached him, arousal shot through him, and he remembered falling asleep on the sofa. Involuntarily, he began rocking against Greg, and a moan escaped him before he could control it.
“Mycroft,” Greg groaned, going from sacked out to rock hard instantly. He inhaled deeply. His hands went to Mycroft’s hips, pulling him down onto his erection. “Fuck.”
Grinding against Greg was such a relief he couldn’t speak for a moment. “We have-” gasp “-to get off-” gasp “-the sofa, before I ruin it.” Ignoring his own words, he pulled Greg into a desperate kiss.
“Bedroom. I need you now.” When Mycroft didn’t move, he shoved him a bit, pushing his shoulders. “Now, Mycroft,” he growled.
Mycroft nodded, forcing himself to move off of Greg. “I need you,” he whimpered.
Their clothes were gone before they ever reached the bedroom. Mycroft untangled himself from Greg’s grasping hands to fall heavily onto the unmade bed. Greg covered his body with his own, and pressed his nose to Mycroft’s neck. He could feel Mycroft’s short nails scoring his back. The urge to sink his teeth into that pale flesh and claim his mate was strong, but Greg wasn’t a cave man, and held himself back. He couldn’t resist scraping his teeth down the long column of Mycroft’s throat, drawing a broken sob from his beloved’s mouth.
“Greg, I’m so wet, I need you, please, please fuck me, please-”
Greg kissed him hard. “How do you want it?” He could feel the evidence of Mycroft’s arousal where his thighs met his body.
God, he’d never been asked for a preference before and it was almost too much. “Like this,” Mycroft gasped. “Want to see you.”
With another hard, bruising kiss, Greg pulled Mycroft’s legs over his shoulders. “God, I’m so hard for you,” he whispered.
“Fuck me, please,” Mycroft whimpered out in response. “I need your cock in me.”
Greg arranged himself, and slowly pushed into Mycroft’s body. His arse was already loose, and he was hotter and slicker than any time before. He rocked in deeper little by little, stretching Mycroft slowly, drawing out the pleasure. Mycroft continued to claw his back and beg. He’d have marks in the morning.
“Move, Greg, more,” Mycroft moaned, desperate for Greg to pound him.
“Slow, don’t want it to hurt when I go deeper.”
A dim, rational corner of Mycroft’s brain understood that it actually would hurt if he wasn’t careful the first time. His hormones didn’t care at all, though, and he cried out desperately.
At the first press of Greg’s long, thick cock through his vaginal opening, Mycroft spasmed and more fluid poured over Greg. “Oh my god, yes,” Mycroft screamed. “More.”
Still moving carefully, Greg pushed in farther, and his thrusts forced his cock against Mycroft’s sweet spot. Mycroft was almost sobbing as he begged Greg for more, harder, faster.
Satisfied that he wouldn’t cause his writhing mess of a boyfriend any pain, Greg fulfilled Mycroft’s request for harder and faster, fucking him harder than he’d ever fucked anyone.
Mycroft orgasmed almost immediately, body clenching tight around Greg’s cock as he fell apart. There were lights flashing before his eyes.
Greg groaned from deep in his chest at the pressure of Mycroft’s body gripping him. “How many times can I make you come?”
Mycroft couldn’t answer. He was rolling on waves of ecstasy every time Greg thrust hard into his body.
Greg pulled Mycroft’s left leg from his shoulder to reach his cock. “What if I touch you?” He teased him with a light caress and watched Mycroft’s eyes roll up in his head as he came again. Hot fluid bathed his cock. He could feel his knot starting to swell. “Want more?” Greg gave Mycroft another stroke, tighter this time, and he came again. “God, that’s hot.” He started fucking him even harder. “I’m going to knot you and you’re going to come again,” he panted. Four times would be pretty fucking impressive.
Through the haze of pleasure, Mycroft started to feel Greg’s swelling knot pressing against his entrance. “Greg, yes, oh god I want your knot-”
That pretty much did Greg in and he gave it three more powerful thrusts, forcing his cock in to the root, and gave a hoarse shout as he came. He felt Mycroft’s orgasm in a vice grip around his cock, and he came again.
For a few moments, the only sound in the room was their harsh panting. Unable to resist, Greg continued to rock their bodies together. Unbelievably, Mycroft came again, drawing a third from Greg. He struggled to hold himself up while he was coming down.
“Have to lie down,” he panted.
With what looked like a Herculean effort, Mycroft opened his eyes. “Help me move my leg then you can lie on top of me.” With some clumsy maneuvering, Mycroft’s right leg slid inelegantly off of his shoulder. Greg attempted to lower himself onto Mycroft’s chest, but he more or less collapsed.
Mycroft draped his arms over Greg’s sweaty back and leaned his head against his love’s. He was pretty sure he’d never been so well fucked. Vulgar or not, that was the only way to describe it.
“I’m pretty sure five orgasms in one round is some kind of record,” Greg mumbled.
“Have you and three before?” He felt Greg shake his head.
“No, that was fucking incredible.”
“We should try for four.”
Greg laughed. “I might die.”
“But what a way to go.”
They lay dozing in and out for 20 minutes or so until Greg’s knot went down. Mycroft stilled him before he pulled out.
“I’m about to make a face of utter revulsion and I don’t want you to think it’s you.”
“Okay…” Greg watched Mycroft’s face. The instant pulled free from his body, Mycroft indeed made the most grossed-out face he’d ever seen. “That’s impressive.”
“You don’t have to feel all of that-” he made another face and shuddered, “-coming out of your arse.”
Greg looked down at the sheets. “Oh.”
Mycroft laughed weakly at Greg’s expression. “Truly, the only unenjoyable part of the experience.”
“Do you want a shower? I can change the sheets.”
He shook his head. “I’m going to need it again too soon to bother.” He was amused by Greg’s intense consideration. "Lie down, my love, I need you to hold me quite desperately.”
Greg smiled and complied, and Mycroft happily pillowed his head on Greg’s chest. Strong arms pulled him closer, and he felt Greg ghost a kiss over his hair. Oxytocin was flooding his brain, and he knew it was just chemistry at the center of it, but he felt the bond between them strengthening, and his love growing deeper and more profound. "There are no words in my admittedly sesquipedalian lexicon to express the intensity of my love for you.”
“I love you, too. More than life, Mycroft.”
“I must demand that you not express that by dying.”
Mycroft laughed. “Mine would be the hand.”
“Always knew a Holmes would be the death of me.”
It was somewhere near midnight when Mycroft declared himself too exhausted and the sheets too soiled to contemplate the next round.
“I know it will wake me in the night, but I desperately need a few hours of rest.”
Greg nodded in agreement. “Go shower, I’ll change the bedding.” The blankets had been compromised at some point.
“Bless you.” Mycroft dragged his aching body from the bed and staggered to the en suite.
Careful to avoid getting his less-than-clean hands on too many things in the cabinet, Greg got more sheets and quickly changed the bed. He hefted that awful duvet off the bench at the foot of the bed to retrieve a fresh blanket. Not wanting to the smelling old sheets as they ripened, Greg chucked them into the laundry room and shut the door.
Mycroft was emerging from the shower when he got back. “Your turn.” He indicated the shower with a tilt of his head.
“Thanks.” When he was done, Greg wandered into the bedroom half asleep, thinking vaguely of something food-like.
“Wake up, Greg,” Mycroft called softly, amusement clear in his voice.
Greg shook his head and focused. Mycroft was seated cross-legged on the bed with a tray sporting tea and sandwiches. “Sorry. Am I still dreaming or is that food?” He crawled onto the bed carefully.
“Not a dream.” Mycroft sipped his tea with a blissful expression.
It was the cutest thing Greg had ever seen. He started eating a sandwich and kept the observation to himself.
They were quiet for a moment, focused on refueling their spent bodies. Greg spoke first.
“We had sex five times in less than six hours. We deserve and award.”
Mycroft chuckled. “My first night and following day are especially active, but I do believe you are exacerbating the problem simply by being yourself.” He sipped his tea, as serene and proper as a man in just pants could be. “I’ve never had five orgasms or had sex this many times in five hours and forty-seven minutes.”
“We also managed to do it in a different position every time.”
Laughing, Mycroft lifted his tea cup in a toast. “We do deserve an award.”
Greg tapped his cup against Mycroft’s while covering an enormous yawn with his forearm. “Let’s sleep while we can.”
“Yes.” Mycroft transferred the tray to his bedside table. He doused the lights and they curled up together. He was drifting off when Greg spoke.
“I hope we didn’t ruin my Star Wars shirt.”
Mycroft responded with a sleepy chuckle. “I’ll get you another.”
“I was about to complain that it’s vintage, but then I remembered who you are.”
“Indeed.” Mycroft kissed Greg’s shoulder. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Greg woke first this time, Mycroft’s scent teasing him in his sleep with delicious dreams until need for more stimulation pulled him to consciousness. Omega pheromones flooded the room with nearly tangible promises. He had to wake Mycroft. He was not going to just start rutting against him while he was asleep. Or god, go any farther. He knew there were alphas that really got off on ‘sneak attacks’ like that but that was too much like rape for Greg’s comfort. Fucking an exhausted omega when he was too dead asleep to respond was disgusting.
Mycroft was on his side facing away. Like so many times, he pressed kisses to the back of his neck and shoulders, running gentle hands over Mycroft’s fair, freckled skin. He felt his love arch his back into his touch. Greg pressed himself against him and was rewarded with a soft moan. He could feel that Mycroft was already wet.
“Why did I bother with pants?” Mycroft hurriedly tried to remove them.
“British Tea Society says you can’t drink tea naked.”
Mycroft burst out laughing as he tossed his sodden underwear onto the floor. Until he’d met Greg he’d had no idea how much better sex could be when it included laughing. He turned over and kissed Greg’s laughing mouth. “Stop. Just fuck me.”
“Have we done it on our sides facing each other?” He was still laughing.
“That sounds awkward and unsatisfying.”
“Better fuck you on your hands and knees, then.”
Groaning, Mycroft turned over. “I love it this way.”
“Can really pound you,” Greg agreed breathlessly, running his hands over Mycroft’s arse and teasing him with his fingers. Mycroft arched his back and pushed back against Greg’s hand.
“Don’t tease me,” he demanded.
“Oh, now I’m really going to torture you,” Greg threatened.
“You can’t hold out and you know it.”
The gauntlet had been thrown down. “Oh really? Watch me.” He spread Mycroft’s arse cheeks and licked firmly over his arsehole. He’d enjoyed his taste before, since he got wet outside of heat, but this was way more intense. He lapped at his entrance, listening to Mycroft begging and pleading for relief. He was so loose that his wriggling tongue could slip in deep, and he kept at it until Mycroft screamed hoarsely and came.
Greg pulled back and wiped his face. “Always wanted to make you come that way.”
Mycroft was practically sobbing. “No more, please, Greg, I need your cock in me, I can’t take it.”
Positioning himself, Greg thrust hard into Mycroft’s body. He didn’t wait for him to adjust, just started pounding. Teasing Mycroft had been torture for him, too.
Mycroft couldn’t stop calling out Greg’s name and begging for him to pound harder. Unable to hold his weight on his arms, he lowered his shoulders to the bed.
And god, it was the best decision he’d ever made.
Mycroft’s scream let Greg know he’d achieved another goal – he was fucking him just right to get his prostate and g-spot at the same time. Omegas were lucky that way. Two more hard thrusts and Mycroft orgasmed. He redoubled his efforts and felt him come again in moments.
“Do you feel my knot? Feel it? I’m going to pound you until I’m locked deep inside, stretch your arse so wide.” Greg was vaguely appalled that he’d said that, but his hormones were talking right then.
“I want it, I want your knot in my arse, I want it, Greg, I want your knot--”
He groaned, god it was so hot to hear Mycroft talking like that. He slammed his hips against Mycroft’s arse, and forced his swollen knot past the resistance, coming hard as Mycroft shuddered through another orgasm. He was still hard, and kept rocking against Mycroft’s arse, and when his knot slipped in deeper, they both came again.
“Do you think you can come again?” Greg fisted Mycroft’s still-hard cock.
The pleasure was almost pain it was good. Mycroft came again and felt Greg’s orgasm. Torturously, Greg resumed stroking him after a moment and he came so hard he nearly fainted. As it was, his vision dimmed. Greg screamed his name and came again himself. Mycroft fell to the mattress and Greg’s weight pinned him.
Greg chuckled and kissed Mycroft’s sweaty neck, taking the opportunity to inhale his gorgeous scent again. He worked his arms under Mycroft’s chest. “Lift up, we’ll roll on our sides.”
Moving carefully, they repositioned. Last time, the lateral twist of Greg’s knot in his arse had led to more orgasms, but thankfully they were too spent to do more than sigh at the pleasant sensation.
“You survived four orgasms.”
“Did you come six times?”
“I think so, it’s a bit of a blur.”
They both passed out still locked together.
Mycroft’s insatiable need woke them twice more before the bleak fall dawn forced a few weak rays through the drapes. Greg was sleepily returning to bed after a trip to the loo and glanced at the clock. It was almost 7:00, he hoped he could sleep an hour or so before Mycroft woke up. Every muscle in his body ached and he wondered if this was how it felt to be trampled by a stampede. When Mycroft’s body called for a response, the pain disappeared thanks to adrenaline, but for now he was worn out.
Mycroft woke when he got back in bed. “I feel as if I’ve been run over repeatedly with a car. And yet, the thought of you knotting me is still appealing.”
“Same here. How are we not having sex yet?”
“I feel it coming, don’t fret,” Mycroft joked.
Greg huffed out a tired laugh. “I’m glad we got to sleep a little.”
“As am I. The intensity should slow down by the end of the day.”
Mycroft laughed softly and moved closer to Greg. “We’ll have an hour or so between rounds by afternoon, even if we don’t fall asleep.”
Greg kissed his forehead and put his arm around him. “I hope we have a chance to eat sometime soon.”
“And have tea.”
“Of course,” Greg laughed.
Within a matter of moments, Greg began to detect Mycroft’s alluring scent, and moved his arm to grip his hip. “I’m suddenly feeling less tired.”
Mycroft moved Greg’s hand down to his arse. “Thank god, because I’d really like you to fuck me.”
“I’ve really enjoyed how many times the word ‘fuck’ has come out of your mouth in the last 24 hours.”
“’Darling, please penetrate me with your phallus’ just doesn’t convey the appropriate sense of urgency.”
Laughing, Greg rolled Mycroft onto his back, and lay on top of him. “I’d die laughing.” He kissed him with love and passion in equal measure.
Mycroft wrapped his arms and legs around Greg, already feeling empty and wanting. “I’m ready, I need it.”
Greg buried his face in the crook of Mycroft’s neck and breathed in deeply. “God you smell good.”
“Let me scent you,” Mycroft asked. He’d never done that during his heat.
Greg kissed him again, then presented his neck. Somehow, scenting someone was different than just sniffing their neck. He had no idea why. There was probably some science that Mycroft knew.
Mycroft closed his eyes and inhaled the scent that was so uniquely Greg, and so very perfect. He was instantly more aroused. “I want, so very badly, to bite you.” He couldn’t resist kissing Greg’s neck.
“I know,” Greg whispered, breathless from just how intensely he wanted Mycroft, emotionally and physically. “I do, too.” He moved and kissed Mycroft like he was dying.
Mycroft had never felt like this before. The intensity of his emotional longing shocked him, just as strong has his physical need for a consummation of their love. It almost ached that they weren’t bonding.
“Someday, I promise,” Greg whispered. He felt it, too.
Mycroft nodded, clutching Greg desperately. “Someday.”
Kissing him again, Greg slowly pushed into Mycroft’s body, wanting to take his time this round, and show Mycroft how very much he loved him.
“Greg,” Mycroft whispered. “I love you.”
“I love you, too. So much.”
“I appreciate your intent, but I need it harder. And faster.”
Greg kissed him again. “Sometimes the best orgasms are when you go slow.”
Mycroft was unable to argue with that. He relaxed into Greg’s caresses and kisses, letting himself feel the bliss of each slow thrust and anticipating the next. Greg slowly sped up, moving faster and harder, and began stroking his cock. So few alphas realized that an omega in heat still wanted that. He moaned loudly.
Unable to resist, Greg inhaled that perfect scent, and kissed Mycroft’s neck. God, the temptation. He focused on moving faster and thrusting deeper, wanting to see Mycroft fall apart. He changed his angle just a bit, and Mycroft gasped and scratched his back.
Greg increased his efforts, still working his hand on Mycroft’s cock. “Love seeing you like this,” he whispered. “When you let go.”
When Mycroft finally reached orgasm, it was a truly magnificent release. Greg felt equally wrecked.
“Sometimes slow is good,” he panted out, kissing Mycroft’s jaw.
“I love you so much, Mycroft. So much I almost can’t hold it all inside me.”
Mycroft tightened his arms around his beloved. “I love you, Greg, so very dearly. Were I given to flights of fancy, I might almost suggest that we have been brought together by the hands of Fate.”
Greg chuckled. “I feel like we were meant to be, too.” He kissed Mycroft’s neck. “Am I squishing you?”
“No, your weight is quite comforting.”
“Do you think you can have a shower and breakfast after this round?”
Mycroft nodded. “I have to, I’m famished and dehydrated.”
They nodded off together, waking an hour or so later when Mycroft felt a strong need to visit the loo. He rubbed Greg’s back to wake him. “Move, dearest, please.” He pushed on Greg’s shoulders gently.
Rolling to the side, Greg stretched and chuckled as he watched Mycroft make haste to the en suite. He heard the toilet flush, hand washing, tooth brushing, and the shower. Guess he couldn’t stand the mess, he mused. Groaning, he climbed out of bed and went in search of clean sheets. What he wanted to do was join Mycroft in the shower; what he didn’t want to do was be stuck on the floor with cold water pouring over his head. Been there, done that.
He was finishing the bed when Mycroft ran a warm hand over his back and kissed his shoulder. “Thank you, my love. I’ll put on the kettle and coffee if you want a shower.”
Greg straightened and leaned in for another kiss. “Thanks.”
When he wandered out to the kitchen, a cup of coffee and peanut butter toast were waiting for him. Mycroft was sipping tea and looking at his iPad. Greg kissed the back of his head. “Thank you, love, you’re amazing.”
“You’re quite welcome.” He made a face. “Apparently, there was an incident on the Tube last night.”
“What kind of incident?” Greg asked as he sat at the bar.
“An attempt at London’s first nude flashmob.”
Greg choked on his coffee laughing and Mycroft had to pound on his back. “That’s hysterical.”
“Opinions are divided between hilarious and scandalous. I’m sure quite a few videos are available on YouTube if you’d like to make an informed choice.” Mycroft looked up to see that Greg had disappeared. “Greg?”
“Be right back!”
He watched the hallway to see Greg emerge from the bedroom holding his mobile. “This one has almost a million views already.”
“I should have known.”
Greg sat down again and shared his phone with Mycroft before pressing play.
“It’s blurry, but you can see well enough,” he commented.
Mycroft couldn’t help but burst out laughing as the crowd of naked people began dancing – badly – to a popular song. Greg was in tears. It was only a few moments before transit security began running toward the mob, and they grabbed their coats and tried to flee.
“God I’m glad I’m not a transit cop. I would have been laughing too hard to do anything.”
“I’ll download the CCTV footage for you later.”
“Thanks.” He happily munched his toast. A thought occurred. “We slept about an hour, and it’s been at lease another half, that’s a long stretch between rounds.”
Mycroft nodded. “It is.”
Greg went still. “Is there something wrong?” What if…would his heat just stop if he was pregnant?
Mycroft chuckled at the look on Greg’s face. “No. When I’m exceedingly hungry and dehydrated it slows down. My body knows it needs fuel for further debauchery.”
“Oh, thank god.” Darn.
He leaned over and kissed Greg’s cheek. “I practically inhaled two hard-cooked eggs while you were bathing and the water was heating.”
“You should have more than that. I’ll make you something.” He got up. “Anything you want.”
“You spoil me terribly. Pancakes? With blueberries in them?”
Greg opened the fridge to find a container of blueberries looking right at him. He grabbed them along with the eggs and milk. “Your wish is my command,” he teased. Gathering the rest of the ingredients, Greg started mixing the batter. He’d made pancakes so many times that he didn’t need to measure anything. “Do you want syrup, or do you want me to make a mixed-berry compote?”
Mycroft just stared for a moment. “You are truly, truly amazing. But to answer your question, syrup would be fine.” I really could not be more spoiled if he tried. It was a wonderful feeling to be loved so much.
Mycroft watched in awe as Greg deftly prepared blueberry pancakes, heated the syrup in a water bath, and washed and sliced fresh fruit to garnish the plates. He even dusted powdered sugar over the top.
“For you, my dear.” He always said that when he brought Mycroft food.
“You’re a wonder to me, my love.”
“You’re always welcome, Mycroft.”
By the time they’d finished, Mycroft was nodding off. “It’s no reflection on your culinary abilities, Greg.”
“Go lie down, I’ll wash up and join you.”
When Greg got back to the bedroom (with yesterday’s discarded, but not ruined, clothes), Mycroft was sound asleep. He needed no invitation to crawl back into bed and cuddle close to Mycroft. Within a few moments, he was fast asleep.
Wednesday night arrived with a significant decrease in desperate sex. As much as having sex for five days straight rocked, a break was one hell of a relief. Greg looked as his phone with bleary eyes and saw that he’d been asleep almost four hours. He rolled over and saw that Mycroft was blinking at him. “Hey.” He scooted forward and planted a kiss on his forehead.
“What time is it?” Mycroft moved closer to snuggle into Greg’s warmth.
“7:30ish. On Wednesday.” He pulled Mycroft closer.
“Want me to make you dinner?”
Mycroft chuckled. “You have treated me like a king this week, Greg. You can take the night off. We’ll order delivery.”
Greg laughed. “Okay, but I still feel like you need more worshiping.”
“I’m sufficiently worshiped.”
He cuddled closer and rubbed his nose against Greg’s chest. “I have an idea that allows us to worship each other.”
“I like the sound of this.”
“Would you like to take a bath?”
Greg groaned and squeezed Mycroft. “God, yes.”
“Wonderful. Come.” Mycroft slowly untangled himself from Greg’s embrace and crawled off of the bed.
Mycroft’s bathtub, like everything else in the bathroom, was enormous and opulent. “You have the biggest bathtub I think I’ve ever see,” Greg commented. “I could almost swim in it.”
“You could almost swim in it. It’s intended to be long enough and deep enough that you can float if you want. It also has a recirculating system, so the water is always hot. And jets.”
“Why haven’t we had a bath before?” That sounded like the best bathtub in existence.
Mycroft chuckled. “I don’t know. How do you feel about bubbles?”
“I like bubbles as long as they don’t smell like strawberries or flowers or unicorns or something.”
“What do unicorns smell like?”
Greg laughed. “I have no idea, but I don’t want to smell like one.”
“Here, smell this and see if you approve.” Mycroft held out a cobalt class bottle with no label.
The scents that greeted Greg’s nose were both completely distinct and perfectly blended. It wasn’t too feminine, but also still had a softness to it that spoke of gentle comfort. It had a masculine, warm tone and a little bit of spice, but also hints of soothing florals. It was possibly the most Mycroft scent you could put in a bottle.
“That smells amazing. Where on earth did you get bubble bath that smells like your personality?”
Mycroft began to pour the mixture under the running water. “At a shop where one can blend one’s own fragrances. I mixed this myself. That is no doubt why it smells like my personality.” He was obviously amused, but pleased as well.
“What’s in it?” Greg watched the bubble-level rise along with the water.
“Honey and almond for a base, blended with sandalwood, cinnamon, vanilla, rose, and lavender.”
Greg ran a hand over Mycroft’s bare back and kissed his shoulder. “It’s perfect.”
They settled carefully into the blissfully hot water and Greg could feel his muscles turning to jelly. Mycroft was between his legs with his back to his chest. The aroma of the bubble bath was soothing and calming and Greg was pretty sure he could fall asleep if he had a pillow. “This is amazing.”
Mycroft nodded. “I love taking baths. After work I often relax with a drink in the bath and listen to books.” He felt Greg kiss the top of his head.
They drifted for a while in pleasant silence, before Greg asked a question. “If you were going to make me a bubble bath, what would be in it?”
“Hm, let me think. I think a juniper base, with the tiniest hint of patchouli, jasmine, aloe, sensual amber, and maybe sea minerals.”
Mycroft chuckled. “It’s a mixture of exotic oils that smells decadent and rich. It’s a heavy smell, and would balance the sharper, brighter juniper. It’s an excellent complement to jasmine and patchouli.”
“I’d have to experiment with it to find the right balance of each scent, but I think that could be the ‘Greg Lestrade’ signature bubble bath.”
Greg chuckled. “If you feel like making it, I’d love to smell it.”
Mycroft turned his head to look up. “We can go to the shop together some time, it’s a regular shop, not a top-secret facility.”
“Not that you haven’t sent me to those, too.”
“I apologized for Baskerville.”
Greg laughed. “Fair enough.” He cupped water in his palm and let the tiny pool trickle onto Mycroft’s chest. “But you still owe me.”
It was Mycroft’s turn to laugh. “I’m sure that my brother will need supervision in a pleasant locale at some point.”
“Maybe you could convince him to take a case in the Caribbean. I’d happily supervise.”
“I’d need to try to convince him not to go on a case in the Caribbean for him to take a case in the Caribbean.”
“Let’s work on that after the new year. Finding Sherlock cases in the Caribbean.”
“I cannot believe that he dominates our life to the extent that we’re discussing him in the bathtub.”
Greg groaned. “You’re right.”
“Perhaps I could take you to the Caribbean.” Mycroft tipped his head up and kissed Greg’s chin.
“That sounds at least 100% better.” Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft and kissed his neck. “I’m starting to get a little water logged.”
Mycroft stretched languidly in the general direction of the soaps. “This one smells very nice with the bubbles.” He plucked it from its resting place and dropped it into Greg’s waiting hand. “Bother. I don’t know that I can reach a flannel.”
“I can.” Greg leaned over the edge of the tub to get a fluffy white flannel from the basket. He soaked it in the tub and started lathering the soap. “What’s the scent for this soap, did you mix it yourself?”
“No, but I bought it from the same shop, it’s just sandalwood.”
They slowly and gently washed each other, more out of love and affection than a need for scrubbing. Greg painted loose circles on Mycroft’s back with the fragrant foam; Mycroft turned in Greg’s embrace to massage his chest. They started kissing very softly, lovingly, and eventually Greg dropped the flannel into the water to devote all of his attention to the man he loved. Even after days together, he’d yet to tire of showing Mycroft just what an amazing man he was.
Eventually Mycroft pulled back. “I love you, Greg. Thank you for sharing a bath with me.” He was flushed from the heat, smiling sweetly, and his eyes were sparkling.
“It literally was my pleasure,” Greg answered with grin. “I demand that we have more baths in the future.” He didn’t think he’d seen Mycroft ever look so young and happy.
“I’ll not argue with you on that.” He stood carefully and stepped out of the tub onto the plush bathmat. “We’ll have to acquire more bubbles.”
Greg accepted a towel from Mycroft after he stepped onto the mat. “Just no unicorn scented bubbles.”
Mycroft chuckled softly. “What about dragons?”
Greg made a show of considering. “I guess that would be okay.”
“When I was very small, I had a stuffed dragon toy. I aspired to be a dragon as well. Mummy despaired of me.”
“You’d make a wonderful dragon, love.”
Later, munching delicious Chinese food and watching Starter for Ten, Mycroft reflected that he could never have imagined a heat like this, but he hoped to god the rest of them were exactly the same.
So, the mini series was White Queen, which Rupert was in, and the reason Lestrade was missing his sexy hair during S3. Starter For Ten has Mark as possibly the dorkiest looking person ever. Also Benedict.
We're caught up to what I've actually written. :( I'll try my damnedest to make sure there's an update once a week. Thank you everyone who has commented and left kudos, you're keeping me going!
Mycroft felt like he was drifting on a warm sea for what felt like an hour until actual nagging thoughts of responsibility and breakfast brought him to awareness. Though he was faced away from the windows, the sunlight streaming in around the drapes was bright enough to bring him to full consciousness. With a sotto voce groan, he rolled over to check on Greg.
Greg was passed out on his stomach, snoring softly, and unattractively drooling on his pillow. Mycroft laughed quietly. His beloved was no doubt still exhausted, and would sleep a bit longer. Greg slept more than he did on any day, and the last few days had worn them both out. With a last fond look, Mycroft rose from the bed to have a shower and tea. When he exited the bathroom, his boyfriend hadn’t even moved, garnering another soft chuckle from Mycroft. Dressing in actual clothes after five days of being primarily nude was a relief, even if he did put on a pair of worn cotton khaki trousers and an old, soft, much-abused blue jumper – his equivalent to Greg’s favorite ratty jeans and a pop-culture-related t-shirt. Whimsically, he selected a pair of striped socks that his father had picked out for him but that he had never worn; they were wonderfully warm and soft. He eschewed shoes for the time, no need to clunk around the flat and wake Greg. Mycroft had to admit to himself, if to no one else, that Greg’s casual dress had given him a sense of freedom to relax his rigid clothing routines. He didn’t need the armour that fine clothes provided when he was with Greg, and that Greg’s stalwart insistence that there was nothing wrong with him made him feel as though he could shed that armour out of the flat, if only occasionally. There was no chance, whatsoever, that he would be called into work this week, and had no need to prepare ahead of time by dressing for such an event. So thusly attired, Mycroft padded softly out to the kitchen.
He and Greg had left the remains of their Chinese feast on the counter the previous night, despite the rubbish bin being mere steps away. While the water was heating, Mycroft discarded the cartons, somehow still smiling, even while cleaning up evidence of extreme laziness. Tea in hand, he walked into the sitting room, and pulled back the drapes to let sunshine flood the room. It would likely grow cloudy later in the day, but the golden rays were quite welcome this morning, and served to further elevate his mood.
Greg has finally seen me at my most vulnerable. Physically, and emotionally, vulnerable as never before. He was not put off. He was not disgusted by my passions. He did not distain by baser instincts. He loves me, and showed me over and over again that I will always be his. Not a single word of distaste fell from his lips. He still loves me. He still wants me. We more or less pledged to bond.
I can still trust him.
Trust. That’s what he had feared to lose. That once Greg saw him as a writhing, powerless creature of lust he’d no longer respect him. It would have been impossible to trust him after that. Had Greg simply been made less aroused by him, they could easily have continued a relationship, after all he need only force his heat on Greg once every year or so; many couples that were perfectly happy struggled with the physical aspects of sharing a heat. Had Greg determined that he was no longer worth respecting…but he had not. Greg still felt that he was the same man he’d been before, he was sure of it. He’d likely not have washed all of that laundry had he believed that I was now somehow a less-equal member of this relationship, he’d have expected me to do it. And there had been quite a lot of laundry.
Mycroft turned to walk to the kitchen for a fresh cup of tea, and the sun reflecting over the glossy surface of his piano caught his attention. He hadn’t touched her in months. Not that he hadn’t wanted to – but all of his time had been spent on other pursuits, especially pursuing Greg. Greg, who had asked him to play, but he had refused. The reasoning had been nebulous and unformed, but Greg had respected his obvious discomfort and not pressed the matter. It was clear now, though: he was just as vulnerable when he allowed passion to take over at the keys as any other time passion came into play. But Greg would never be critical of his playing, he’d love anything that he played. Greg had seen him at his most overtaken-by-passion and had not turned from him.
I can still trust him.
Setting his cup on a side table, Mycroft pulled out the bench and sat, feeling the familiar combination of emotions that always flooded him before he played. Concentration. Trepidation. Confidence. Recklessness. Passion. He lifted sleek wood concealing the keys, and set his fingers to the ivory. He began with warm-up exercises, as he hadn’t played in some time. Scales, arpeggios, varied dynamics and tempos. He assumed he would wake Greg, but believed that his dearest would not mind.
The first piece that entered his thoughts was The Swan, deceptively simple yet far more sophisticated after the score was analyzed. He pictured the large, stately birds flowing down the river in a procession as he played. Swans mated for life. He’d always wondered if swans got lonely without a mate. He rather thought they did.
Pachelbel’s Canon in D flowed from his fingers next, delicate and stately turning to pure joy at the climax of the piece. It was nearly enough to express the ebullience of the joy in his own heart. He’d decided when he first heard it that he wanted to be married to this piece. Perhaps brides felt that way, but he felt it too. Now he pictured walking down the aisle with Greg at his side to the glorious strains of the Canon, and he almost felt as if he was flying for a moment before the music began to calm, and he returned to the earth, still so full of delight that he wasn’t sure he could hold it all inside.
Without even considering it, he began the piece that he’d come to associate with Greg almost a decade ago. The night he’d met Greg, he’d been so taken by him, that he’d been unable to relax after arriving home, even after a scotch and a rich meal. He’d been drawn to Polyhymnia that night, much as he was today, and had played the pieces that his emotions called for – and Claire de Lune was the first. It was so perfectly Greg. So gentle, delicate, and fleeting at the beginning – almost tentative; but strengthening and deepening quickly, showing beauty, complexity, and passion all at once. The colors this piece evoked had always fascinated him – deep emerald green foliage surrounding a midnight blue – nearly black- pond, with delicate pink petals floating on the surface, illuminated by pure silver moonlight. In his mind, a tiny island was in the center of the lake, and a small ruin bleached to the color of bone stood there, elegant in order and disarray at once. This was Greg, this was his love, and this was the most pure way he could ever express his depth of emotion.
Somewhere in the middle of the piece, Mycroft realized that he was no longer alone in the room. He continued to play, and as the last notes lingered, he braced himself, and turned to see Greg sitting on the sofa, a look of absolute wonder on his handsome face.
There was a sound happening that he was unfamiliar with. Not like he’d never heard it, but not here. Wherever here was. Greg tried to pull himself together but realized he’d fallen asleep again when he startled himself snorting like a pig. He reluctantly pushed up on his elbows, and wiped the drool off of his chin. “Damn, I must have slept hard,” he muttered to himself. He was trying to decide if he really needed to stay awake when the sound happened again. This time, he knew what it was.
Mycroft was playing the piano.
Greg lay still for a few moments, not sure if he should get up and go listen, or give Mycroft privacy. He’d never played for him before, and might not want to now. But, why would he play with Greg there if he didn’t want him to hear?
It became a moot point because he had to use the loo no matter what Mycroft’s intensions were. He took the opportunity for a lightning-quick tooth brushing as well before he walked slowly and quietly out to the sitting room. The site that greeted him would be part of his memory for the rest of his life.
Mycroft, sitting at the glossy black piano, sun streaming over him and bringing fiery highlights to his auburn hair, a look of pure happiness on his face, his movements fluid and graceful a his fingers flew over the keys. In that moment, Greg thought he was so incandescently beautiful that he wished he could write poetry or music, or paint, or something to capture the wealth of emotion that he was feeling. Mycroft was his life, his love, his everything – and he knew, knew, that Mycroft was telling him he felt exactly the same. He didn’t know what he’d done to earn this concert, but he was going to cherish it. Moving quietly, he settled on sideways on the sofa so that he could continue to watch Mycroft play. He finished one song – was it called a song when there was no singing? - and began the next. This one he’d heard before, in commercials. It was his favorite of the limited of classical music he was familiar with. Mycroft’s expression was riveting when he reached the really good part of the music before it slowed back down. He’d been transformed from a fairly amazing government official to a certifiably amazing artist by the pure joy he found in the music.
When Mycroft started the next piece (that’s what it’s called), there was something different about him. It was like he wasn’t playing the piano so much as the music was its own entity working through him. There was so much love in it, he knew Mycroft was playing for him. Just for him. The notes painted a picture for him, a still lake in a park, a cloudless midnight, pale light pouring down and bringing green to the edges of leaves and blues to the ripples on the water. He imagined it was a warm night, and that he could smell flowers, and he and Mycroft were walking together. I wonder if I can ever find a way to show him that I love him just as much.
Greg could tell the piece was ending, and kinda didn’t want it to stop it was so pretty. As the last notes faded away, Mycroft turned to face him. His expression was completely open, he was clearly uncertain about how his concert had been received. He jumped up from the sofa and went to the piano pretty much as quickly as possible without running. He leaned down, cupped Mycroft’s jaw, and kissed him. Mycroft’s hands came up to cover his, and when he pulled away he caught them and kissed his fingers.
“I love you, too.”
Mycroft gave a tiny, joyful laugh, almost the beginnings of tears, and looked up in to Greg’s deep brown eyes, so full of devotion and love, so honest and so pure. “You are my life, Gregory Andrew Lestrade.”
Greg nodded. “You’re mine, Mycroft. Sadly, I can’t make it sound quite as elegant because I don’t know your middle name.” He giggled a little, feeling slightly teary himself.
Mycroft tugged Greg to sit on the bench with him. “I have two, Edwin and Christopher.”
Greg pressed their foreheads together, and closed his eyes. “You are my life, Mycroft Edwin Christopher Holmes,” he whispered. “I’ll never be able to tell you with music or art, but I hope I can show you.”
“You show me every day, every minute, Greg,” Mycroft whispered back.
“I meant it when I promised we’d bond someday.”
“I know. I did too.” Mycroft felt his lip trembling and tried to hold back ridiculous tears.
“I know you were afraid to share this with me, that you thought I wouldn’t see you the same way. That you’d let me in and I wouldn’t love you anymore. That I’d betray your trust. But I won’t, Mycroft. You’re too precious to me, every part of you, even the parts you don’t like. I will always love you. I cherish every moment we’re together.”
Mycroft did start crying then, but Greg was crying too so that made it more tolerable. “I love you.”
“I want to build a life with you, Mycroft. And if I’m not reading it wrong, I’m pretty sure you said that with that last piece you played.”
He nodded, unable to speak. He smiled when Greg wiped his tears away with his thumbs. “Thank you.”
Greg kissed Mycroft’s forehead. “Always.”
Mycroft pressed a kiss to Greg’s slightly salty lips. “Would you like me to play another piece?”
“Yes!” Greg replied, his face lighting up. “You’re amazing.”
Mycroft smiled as he flipped through his mental musical catalogue.
I can still trust him.
So this happened. I started mentally writing this scene in the shower last night and I let it percolate in the back of my mind all day at work and then it just poured out. I hope it's okay. It's still a little raw.
I've attempted to play all three of those pieces of music but I have wee little chubby fingers and piano is hard for me. I also want to walk down the aisle to Canon in D, even though I don't want to get married lol. Polyhymnia is the Muse of Sacred Verse in Greek mythology. I feel like music is sacred verse for Mycroft and Sherlock.
Thank you everyone for the lovely reviews of the heat chapter! I think Greg and Mycroft might be a little sexed out for a while, but don't worry, the debauchery will continue.
Btw, I intended this fic to cover a long stretch of the guys' lives, but I'm running out of lines from the poem! So a sequel has already been planned set to another poem. There's also going to be a Johnlock entry to this universe at some point. All of the poems I'm picking are modern American poems set to music by modern American composers that believe that sopranos don't need to breathe aka songs I sang in college. They're some of my favorite modern songs, though. Ah, good times.
Chapter 19: and whatever a sun
I'm sorry this has taken so long, I had a visit from a friend that lives across the country, and my muggle job has been brutal lately. Thank you for being patient!
Mycroft was watching the CCTV feed for a specific intersection in a less-than-safe area of London. Two men should have been meeting there. One was his. The other was a known IS recruiter with a habit of kidnapping young men who declined his invitations.
His agent for the mission was truly remarkable. In jeans and a t-shirt, he was possibly the most ordinary person in Britain, you’d never notice him in a crowd. In a suit, he was suddenly a dynamic businessman. Somehow his complexion appeared completely Caucasian in ordinary western clothing and Indian in traditional dress. He actually carried a lineage of nearly every ethnicity, even some Native American. He was a chameleon. And he could mimic any accent in the world. Right now, he’d grown a thin beard and let his hair go a bit, and he looked like a pure-blood resident of Pakistan. And he was supposed to be on this corner, but was not.
A vibration on his desk drew his attention to his phone. A text from a series of five letters and numbers and containing what appeared to be gibberish appeared in his inbox. It was encrypted, of course. Over the next few moments, Mycroft went through the several steps to decode it.
Target’s wife in labor. Meeting postponed.
Well, that was inconvenient, but at least not a security issue. He was preparing to turn away when movement caught his eye. It took a moment, but it soon because clear that what he was seeing was snow.
Normally, Mycroft considered snow a dreadful inconvenience, but walking through drifting snowflakes with Greg sounded very romantic.
Look outside. – MH
He waited a few moments for Greg’s reply. The first text was three snowflakes.
Glad I’m not at a crime scene. Really ruins the romance of the first snow. – G
I imagine it does. – MH
Care to come over for dinner? My fireplace is cozy. – G
I would love to. – MH
Cuddling with Greg by the fire while snow piled up on the windowsill sounded wonderful.
Any dinner requests? – G
Anything would be fine. Would you like me to bring wine? – MH
Nope just bring yourself. – G
Mycroft smiled to himself. Greg was unreasonably adorable sometimes.
I will endeavor to leave the office at 6:00 this evening. – MH
Perfect. I’m taking off early today because it’s snowing and I can. I’ll try to have dinner ready when you get to my flat. – G
Were Greg anyone else, he’d consider that an abuse of his position, but Greg had such an unbelievable work ethic that he couldn’t fault him leaving a few hours early, especially when he had worked three 12-hour days the previous week. Snow was a valid excuse.
I look forward to seeing you. I love you. – MH
I love you too, Myc. – G
Mycroft looked at the text, sure that a confused and concerned look was marring his normally-blank features. Is that a…nickname? A pet name? He wasn’t sure how he felt about it. His mother had called him Mikey growing up, until he’d asked her before he started high school to call him Mycroft as he was no longer a little boy. Amusingly, Sherlock had asked to be called by his middle name, Sherlock, at that time, so that he could be grown up too. Until then, their mother had called him Billy-bee. He’d been 11. Sherlock had been 4. At the time, he’d resented his brother copying him, but Sherlock had suited the serious child far better than Billy-bee anyway.
“I suppose it’s not any different than when I call him ‘dearest’ or he calls me ‘love,’” he said to himself. “Those are also nicknames or pet names.” It just seemed childish to be called Mike.
But Greg hadn’t spelled it that way, had he? Perhaps that made it different.
No one has ever called my Myc before. – MH
Is it okay? I don’t have to if you don’t like it. – G
Perhaps I need to hear you say it before I make a decision. – MH
His phone promptly rang, and he answered it. “Hello, Greg.” He couldn’t help but smile at his boyfriend’s impulsivity.
“I love you, Myc.”
No, it didn’t sound anything like his mother calling him Mikey. It sounded very sweet.
“I love you too, dearest. You have my approval.”
Greg laughed. “Good. It will be easier to scream that in bed.”
“Gregory, please, not in the workplace,” Mycroft corrected in a mock-severe tone.
“Some time I’m going to come to your office and shag you on that big desk.”
Mycroft felt himself blush. “Absolutely not.” He got a dark chuckle in response.
“Bend you over the top, trousers around your ankles, staplers falling on the floor.” Greg was laughing quietly now. Mycroft was equal parts embarrassed and aroused, and embarrassed that he was aroused by the thought of Greg taking him over his own desk.
“Good lord, Greg,” he choked out. “Stop.”
“I’ll see you tonight. Love you, Myc.”
“I love you, as well, dearest.” Even if you are persistently inappropriate.
Greg chuckled as he rang off with Mycroft. He was fairly certain he’d never shag him across his desk, but teasing him about it was entertaining. He assumed there were far too many ways to get caught to actually have sex in his office. Greg’s own office was out of the question, unfortunately. They’d had a pretty good late-night snog last week, though.
What to cook, what to cook. Mycroft hadn’t come over in a few weeks, so it had been a while since he’d cooked. Maybe steak marsala? Merlot was a good match for the meal, which was great since Mycroft had left a bottle of expensive wine at his flat some time recently. Homemade pasta with it. And tiramisu for dessert. Also convenient that the last time he’d made fresh fettuccini, he’d frozen a bunch. Store-bought tiramisu would have to do, though. He didn’t have that much time to cook.
Snow covered the tops of cars and assorted stuff on the sidewalk when he left his office. Normally the year’s first snow didn’t stick, but as cold as it had been in the last six weeks, he was pretty sure it would stick around.
Tesco was packed with over-reacting Londoners panicking about the weather. Luckily, they were after bread and milk so there was plenty of good beef and veg left. Fresh garlic, porcini mushrooms, an onion, not a lot of ingredients. Marsala sauce was elegant and simple. And he already had a bottle of marsala wine from buying two the last time he’d made it. I picked the most convenient nice meal ever.
As he was letting himself into the flat, his phone buzzed (still on silent from work). He hoped it wasn’t Mycroft cancelling.
Think there’ll be enough snow to hit a flatmate with a snowball? Asking for a friend. – JW
Greg laughed out loud.
Not likely but probably enough to shove some down the back of his trousers. – G
Is Sherlock being a prick? – G
He set the phone down and went about unpacking the groceries.
Nah I just want to annoy him. – JW
Greg’s amazing powers of deduction had clued him in to an increased level of what he’d call flirting from John aimed at Sherlock. That awkward flirting mostly comprised of annoying the other party. Probably no one else (besides Mycroft) would notice, but John had made an effort to include him in his flirtation planning. He couldn’t get a read on Sherlock. He’d been so solicitous of John since he’d come back that Greg hoped he was picking up on it, after all it was blindingly obvious that Sherlock was in love with him. Watch. John doesn’t realize Sherlock loves him and Sherlock can’t tell John’s interested.
Snow in your pants is bloody annoying. – G
Payback for all the body parts in the fridge over the years. – JW
You’re a saint. I would have killed him. – G
Does Mycroft do anything mad like that? – JW
Right there, John had drawn a parallel to his relationship with Mycroft. I knew it. He’s after Sherlock. Greg chuckled and thought about Mycroft’s fridge.
His jams are alphabetized. – G
Jam. Jam is supposed to be in the fridge. – JW
Greg took a moment to walk into the bedroom and change into sweats.
He blends his own bubble bath. – G
I can’t tell you how unshocking that is. Personal bubble bath is very Mycroftian. – JW
His closet is abnormally organized. Suits arranged by occasion, fabric, style, and color. Sock index. Ties and pocket squares in their own little cabinet. – G
Mycroft might have OCD. – JW
Obsessive closet disorder? – G
He giggled at his own joke.
Sherlock’s closet and dresser are the only organized parts of the flat. No body parts or animal carcasses, though? – JW
Greg laughed again. He started on dinner. Nope. I got the sanitary Holmes. – G
Hahaha! – JW
Greg didn’t reply, he had to get busy cooking. He had about an hour before Mycroft would get there if he left work on time. He did note, however, that he’d referred to Mycroft as his, implying Sherlock was John’s, and John hadn’t awkwardly protested that they weren’t a couple. God they’ve basically been married for years they need to get on with it.
Sure enough, an hour or so later, Mycroft knocked on the door. He greeted his love with a smile. “Hi.”
Mycroft stepped into the flat and gave Greg a chilly kiss. “It’s gotten colder and the snow is still falling.”
Greg popped up on his toes to rub his warm nose against Mycroft’s cold one. “Maybe John will be able to throw snowballs at Sherlock.”
Mycroft laughed and pulled away to take off his coat and scarf. “That sounds like an excellent idea.”
“Dinner should be about ready.”
Mycroft followed Greg into the kitchen. “What culinary delight have you prepared for us?”
“Steak marsala with homemade fettuccini. Tiramisu for dessert.”
“You made the pasta from scratch?”
Greg nodded as he turned to get plates. “Yep. While you were gone the humidity was low so I made a huge batch. I gave some to my mum and froze enough for six or seven meals.”
Mycroft was fairly amazed. “I had no idea you could make pasta. I’ve never made pasta.”
“My mum taught me.” He set the plates on his little table. “Bon appetite.”
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your desire to cook for me.” Mycroft poured the wine.
Greg chuckled as he sat down. “You’ve cooked for me, too. Plus you take me to posh restaurants.”
“This weekend I’ll make you something elaborate to return the many favors I owe you.” Mycroft cut into his steak to find that Greg had prepared it exactly to his taste. He was nearly overcome with the perfection of the steak, sauce, and pasta. “This is exquisite, Greg.”
Mycroft’s obvious enjoyment of the meal was gratifying. “I’m glad you like it.”
“Is the tiramisu homemade as well?”
Greg shook his head. “Nah, didn’t have enough time to make one. It’s from Tesco.”
Laughing, Greg took a sip of the wine. “These cakes are amazing, you can’t tell they’re store-bought.”
Mycroft chuckled. “We’ll see.”
After dinner, Greg suggested cuddling on the sofa by the fire. “Do you wanna go put on some of my pajamas? You’ll be more comfortable.”
“That sounds like a fantastic idea. I’ll be right back.”
When Mycroft emerged from Greg’s room in flannel pajama bottoms and the Star Wars shirt he had a habit of stealing, Greg had moved the sofa closer the fireplace, and the flames were crackling cheerfully. A thick, fluffy blanket was draped over the back of the sofa. “This looks very cozy.”
Greg walked into the sitting room from the kitchen. “I thought so. Here.”
Mycroft turned to take a cup of hot cocoa, complete with whipped cream, from Greg’s waiting hand. “I’ve not had hot chocolate in more years than I can count.”
“This is better than the hot chocolate you had when you were a kid. It’s grown up hot chocolate.” Greg rounded the sofa and settled on one end.
Mycroft joined him. “What, pray tell, makes it ‘grown up,’ as you put it?”
“It’s spiked with peppermint schnapps.”
“Ah, that sounds lovely.” Chocolate mint was one of Mycroft’s favorite flavor combinations.
Greg scooted close to Mycroft and draped the blanket over their laps. “This is the only way to spend a cold, snowy night.”
Mycroft chuckled and gave Greg a quick kiss. “Far better than sitting at my desk reading reports until my eyes bleed.”
“Or standing over a body with Sherlock acting like it’s his birthday.”
They were content to just cuddle together under the blanket, sipping hot cocoa, for a long while. “Thank you for inviting me over, dearest. I do so love being with you.”
Greg smiled and kissed his cheek. “I love being with you, too, Myc.” He pulled back. “How did that sound?” he teased.
“I suppose I could get used to it,” Mycroft teased back, smiling. “Only you can call me that, however.”
“I won’t say it in front of anyone else.”
“Thank you. Will you be hurt that I cannot similarly shorten your name?”
Greg laughed. “No. Greg already is the short version of my name. When you call me ‘dearest’ I really like it.”
Mycroft gave Greg one of his sweet, genuine, heart-stopping smiles. “You are my dearest love, Greg.” He leaned in and gave him a lingering kiss.
“I--” Greg was interrupted by Mycroft’s phone ringing. “Bugger.”
“I wonder what kind of crisis this is,” Mycroft groused as he untangled himself from the blanket. “It’s Sherlock.”
Greg gave Mycroft a look of concern that matched his boyfriend’s. “What’s wrong?”
“Sherlock, what’s wrong?”
“This is entirely your fault, Mycroft. I want you to know that I will be holding you personally accountable for the indignity that I will be forced to endure due to your inadvisable decision to enter into a romantic liaison with Lestrade.”
Mycroft held the phone away from his ear, and Greg could hear the majority of the diatribe. He put the phone on speaker and motioned for Greg to be quiet. “I assure you I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“You do so know what I’m talking about.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Greg was biting his lip in an effort not to laugh.
“I fear that my faculties are failing me, brother dear, please enlighten me as to the reason for your distress.”
Greg started laughing silently. Mycroft put his hand over his mouth in an effort to control his own mirth. “I take it you’ve spoken with Mummy?”
“She called John because I wouldn’t answer the phone. John forced me to talk to her.”
Mycroft moved the phone away from his face to ensure that his laughter went unheard. “I wonder how she found out his mobile number?”
“I’m sure you’re completely innocent.” Sarcasm dripped from every word.
“I wouldn’t dream of betraying your confidence by providing Mummy with the number of the one person who could possibly force you to speak to her on the phone.” Greg was biting his hand to keep from laughing.
“In any event, she is requiring that we celebrate your utterly mundane relationship with a holiday fete.”
“What is she holding over your head to make you attend, brother mine?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Of course not. In any event, Greg and I will be happy to attend dinner if it is on either Christmas Eve or Boxing Day.” Mycroft looked over to see that Greg had calmed himself. He raised an eyebrow and cocked his head to the side to silently ask Greg’s preference. He mouthed ‘Christmas Eve.’ “Preferably Christmas Eve.”
They both heard Sherlock snort. “Oh, no, brother mine, I will not initiate a conversation with her about holiday planning. There is not a threat dire enough to inspire me to call her back. This is on you.”
Mycroft saw Greg mouthing something else and nodded. “Will John be joining us as well?”
“That is entirely beside the point.” That set them both off again.
“Very well, I will speak to Mummy about Christmas festivities on the morrow.”
“Shut up, Lestrade.” He hung up.
They looked at each other for a moment before they both burst out laughing. “Have you ever heard a tone so petulant in your life?”
“That was practically whining. What an arse.”
Mycroft returned to the sofa and retrieved his cocoa. “I suppose we do need to plan for our Christmases.”
Greg nodded. “I’ll text my mum tomorrow, she’ll be fine with having dinner on Boxing Day.”
“Mummy will likely be fine with Christmas Eve.”
“What do you want for Christmas, love?”
Mycroft turned to look at Greg. “I don’t know. I haven’t received a Christmas present in years. I am unable to think of anything I could possibly need.”
“You’re getting a present. Think of something.”
“Alright. What would you like for Christmas?”
Greg gave him an impish look. “Why don’t you deduce it?”
Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Very well.” He waited a moment. “I’m not purchasing any sex toys, just cross that off the list right now.”
“I wasn’t even thinking that!” Greg laughed. “Although, now that you mention it…”
Greg leaned over and kissed him. “I don’t need anything big or fancy. Or awkward. I’m pretty happy to just have you.”
“As am I, you, dearest.”
“That might be the most Shakespearian phrase you’ve ever spoken.”
Mycroft laughed. “It was quite old-fashioned. How’s this.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “I love you, Greg, and I’m happy just to have you for the holidays.”
“Very nice, very casual.”
They fell silent for a time, simply enjoying each other’s company and watching the dancing flames. Mycroft was fairly certain that he hadn’t been this relaxed in a fortnight. So relaxed he was starting to nod off. “Greg, I’m quite tired, shall I go?”
Greg rubbed his eyes. “I’d rather you stayed.”
“Oh, thank goodness.”
“That was easy.” Greg stood and stretched. “Help me move the sofa back?”
Sofa straightened, Greg banked the fire. He gave it enough fuel that it wouldn’t go out until just before they got up in the morning. He followed Mycroft into the bedroom, switching off the lights in the sitting room and kitchen. Just like he did at Mycroft’s flat, Mycroft had his own toiletries at his. It wasn’t long before both of them were snuggled up in Greg’s bed.
“Greg--” enormous yawn, “I hope you don’t mind that I just want to sleep.”
“Of course not.” He tugged Mycroft close. “Love you, Myc.”
“I love you so very much, Greg.”
They fell asleep as the snowflakes drifted down through the night.
Greg was rudely awakened by his alarm at 5:30. He flopped over ungracefully to turn it off, a sound of utter disgruntlement coming from his chest. He felt Mycroft turn over and press against his back. “Why is 5:30 so much earlier at your flat?”
“It’s a conspiracy. Probably North Korea.” He thumbed through the screens on his phone to check the weather. “It’s cold.”
Mycroft lifted his head to peer over Greg’s shoulder. “-6 is quite cold.”
“I wonder how much snow we got.”
“Check the news.” Mycroft kissed the back of his neck.
Greg opened his weather app with his thumb and one eye closed. “Holy shit.”
“Over half a meter.”
Mycroft propped himself up on his elbow to look at the phone. “Really?”
Greg opened Chrome to double check with news sources. “Look, it’s all over the news, London crippled by snow, etc, etc.” He rolled backwards so that he could share the phone with Mycroft.
“This is unprecedented.”
“I’m facing a pretty severe dilemma here.”
“I want to stay in bed, but I also want to go look out the window.”
Mycroft chuckled. “I want to look at the window.”
Greg sighed dramatically. “Fine.” He tossed back the blankets to climb out of bed. They padded out to the sitting room. Mycroft pulled the curtains aside.
“Dear lord, look at this.” He moved aside for Greg to look out the window.
“I don’t believe it. We never get snow like this at this time of year.”
“This complicates the beginning of the day. I don’t believe the roads will be passable.”
“Nope.” They were silent for a moment. “I have a proposition for you.”
“We call our respective teams, say we’re staying home, then go back to bed.”
Mycroft was clearly torn. “I never stay home from work.”
“Me either. But how would we get there?”
“I don’t know. We may very well be stuck until the roads are cleared.”
As they watched, fresh snow flakes began to drift through the beam cast by the street light. They sighed in unison.
“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather be snowed in with than you, though.” Greg kissed Mycroft’s cheek.
“Likewise.” With a last mournful glance, they returned to the bedroom.
While Greg was in the loo, he could hear Mycroft talking to Andrea, then Lady Smallwood. “No one is going in, apparently,” he called to Greg.
Greg laughed as he walked around the bed. “I think you’d have to ski to get anywhere right now.” He picked up his phone. He had three texts. “Well, Donovan, Dimmock, and Gregson all just called out.” He felt Mycroft get back in bed and slid under the covers. “I can’t say that I’m complaining.”
“Nor am I,” Mycroft replied with a chuckle. “I’m quite glad to spend my enforced idleness in bed with you.” He kissed Greg gently.
“I’m always happy to be in bed with you.” Greg kissed the tip of Mycroft’s nose. “Let’s sleep ridiculously late.”
“How late is ridiculous?”
“Yes, that is ridiculous. I am very certain I cannot sleep that long,” Mycroft laughed.
“Okay, at least 9:00.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Greg cuddled into Mycroft’s chest. “Love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Mycroft remained awake for a time after Greg had fallen back asleep, contemplating that his life now included being snowed it with his boyfriend…in the middle of London. I thought this might happen in the country, but the city? Ludicrous. He couldn’t deny that he was very happy to spend more time with Greg, despite the nagging guilt he felt for not working today. He hoped there were not global crises while he was asleep. Sleep that sounded very nice, indeed. As he drifted off, reflected that everything was better with Greg, even bad weather.
Mycroft woke to the soft sounds of Greg breathing and his stomach growling. He turned over carefully, and saw that Greg was still asleep. He felt a sense of relief that Greg never felt slighted that he always turned over and was facing away from him when they slept together. He just preferred to sleep on his right side, and Greg always let him have the right side of the bed. Observation had proved that Greg could sleep anywhere in any position. He smiled. He is so precious to me.
Glancing at his mobile, he saw that it was 8:12. I should let Greg sleep until 9:00 as requested. What shall I do without a computer or any way to work? Watch telly? Daytime telly sounded wretched. His stomach growled again. He fancied a lightbulb had appeared above his head like in a cartoon. I can make Greg breakfast in bed.
Mycroft gingerly got out of bed, used the loo, and walked quietly into the kitchen. Greg had a well-stocked kitchen, and he perused the contents of the refrigerator and cupboards. His eyes landed on a container of cream cheese. He scanned the door. Apricot jam. Eggs. Milk. Butter. Mycroft turned his eyes to the counter. What looked like challah. Gathering the cold ingredients, he set them by the bread. A quick search revealed that Greg stored his spices right beside the stove. Vanilla (actual real vanilla, not imitation), cinnamon, nutmeg, confectioner’s sugar. Perched on the shelf above the spices was a bottle of maple syrup. He remembered Greg saying he was too spoiled by Mycroft’s own real maple syrup to use imitation on his own waffles and pancakes. Knife. Skillet. Cutting board. Spatula.
The challah was unsliced; he divided it into very slim pieces. Two-four-six-eight. Mycroft had made this recipe before, and it absolutely required cutting the crust off the of the bread. He spread half of the slices with cream cheese, the other with a liberal portion of apricot jam. He’d made this with orange marmalade before, and that was also quite nice. He pressed each little sandwich together and pinched the edges, making little pockets of decadent goodness.
Mycroft quickly whisked eggs and milk, adding two cap-fulls of vanilla, a teaspoon of cinnamon, and three solid shakes of nutmeg. Before he soaked the toast in the eggs, he heated the skillet and melted a few pats of butter in it – as fatty as this breakfast was, there was no reason to skimp on butter. Greg had a fantastic square skillet, which allowed him to cook all four pieces at once. While the first side toasted, he started tea and coffee. After flipping, he located Greg’s tea tray – he knew Greg had one, they’d used it to keep drinks steady on the sofa. He pulled out two plates and set the toasts on them, but didn’t cut them, as the filling was a secret. Found a strainer to sift the powdered sugar over the top. Plates, silver wear, serviettes, coffee, tea, syrup on the tray. It was just barely big enough for all of it if the plates overlapped a bit. Extremely proud of his accomplishment, Mycroft carefully toted the tray toward the bedroom. A quick glance showed him that it was 8:59.
Greg was, miraculously, still sleeping, but on his back now. Carefully setting the tray on his side of the bed, he rounded the end to look down at his sleeping boyfriend. Feeling like a knight in a fairytale, he leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to Greg’s lips. His eyes fluttered open and he smiled.
“Good morning. I feel like Sleeping Beauty.” He stretched.
“Well you are quite easy on the eyes.”
That made Greg laugh. “Thanks.” He yawned. “What time is it? Do I smell food?”
“You do smell food. I brought you breakfast in bed.” He was rewarded by the most delighted smile he’d ever seen. “It should be 9:00 precisely.”
Greg looked at his phone. “I don’t even know how you did that. What did you make?” He scooted back against the pillows.
Mycroft transferred the tray into Greg’s hands while he settled on the bed. “My special French toast.”
“What makes it special?”
“You’ll find out.”
He poured syrup over the bread and picked up his plate. “A+ for plating and presentation,” Greg teased. “Okay, let’s see what makes this special.” He cut into the first piece with this fork, and watched the warm cream cheese and jam ooze out. He put the bite in his mouth before any could escape. “Oh, my god,” he mumbled around his mouthful.
Mycroft smiled at Greg’s obvious enjoyment. “I shall take that as a compliment.”
“This is fantastic. Holy crap.”
“I’m quite fond of this recipe myself.” He started eating.
“The nutmeg really adds to it. I had no idea how it could enhance the sweetness of the apricots.”
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that you had Madagascar Bourbon vanilla rather than imitation.”
“It’s worth the extra couple of pounds. Usually I have vanilla beans, too.” He tried to find a balance between devouring his breakfast like he was starving and savoring each bite.
“I’ve made it with orange marmalade before, and topped it with orange zest. It tastes a bit like Christmas with the cinnamon, nutmeg and orange together.”
Greg couldn’t talk for a few moments, it was too delicious. “Did you invent this, or did you have it someplace?”
Mycroft finished chewing. “Believe it or not, I had it about 15 years ago when doing undercover work in New Orleans.”
That was unexpected. “I had no idea you’d done undercover work in the States.”
“I’m primarily an analyst, but earlier in my career I was, unfortunately, assigned legwork.”
“What was New Orleans like?”
Mycroft rolled his eyes and took a sip of his tea. “Loud and dreadfully humid.”
Greg laughed. “I should have known.”
“You would no doubt enjoy the boisterous atmosphere and general air of festivity.”
“And the booze.”
Mycroft laughed this time. “As I was working at the time, I was unable to avail myself of the huge variety of liquors served in the establishments I was frequenting.”
“Too bad.” Greg relaxed against the pillows with his coffee. “I’ve never been to the United States.”
After scooting the tray closer to the end of the bed, Mycroft did likewise. “There are fantastic things to see and do. As much as I disdain many aspects of American politics, there are many places I’ve enjoyed visiting in my travels.”
Mycroft sipped his tea. “Well, I’ve been to the United Nations several times, and it’s rather amazing. I’ve been to many of the iconic buildings in New York, the Empire State Building, and when it was standing, the World Trade Center.”
“That was a tragedy I can’t really comprehend.”
“Agreed.” They were silent in contemplation for a moment.
“Where else have you gone?”
Mycroft thought about his favorite spots. “In Chicago, I went to what was then the Sears Tower, at the time it was the tallest building in the world. Since then I’ve been to the Burj Khalifa, the current tallest building in the world. In anticipation of the new millennium, and art installation was placed in Chicago’s Millennium Park. It’s a large, round silver shape that reflects the entire skyline. It has an official name; however, everyone simply calls it ‘The Bean’ because it looks like an enormous shiny bean.”
“You know how I feel about museums. I visited the Smithsonian every time I visited Washington D.C. for years.”
Greg chuckled. “I’m not surprised.”
“The Golden Gate Bridge is really a sight to behold. Photos simply do not do it justice. It is nearly always foggy in San Francisco, and to see this brilliant vermillion structure emerge from the swirling mist is rather mysterious and majestic. If you drive across from the city to the Marin headlands, there is a tunnel with a rainbow painted above it. I always fancied that it meant crossing that bridge was like finding the end of the rainbow.”
“Was there gold?”
Mycroft laughed. “Surprisingly, yes, in the form of a Danish restaurant in Sausalito that simply cannot be compared to any other breakfast café.”
“I should have known. We both have a problem with breakfast foods.”
“It’s an affliction,” Mycroft joked, sipping more tea. He was nearly out. “Seattle is different from any other city I’ve visited. No matter where you stand, a giant mountain is visible, bearing down on your head. You’d love it, everyone there drinks far too much coffee.”
“They didn’t convert you to drinking coffee while you were there?” Greg sipped his with a smile.
“Thankfully, I was not undercover during that trip, and was not forced to drink coffee to blend in.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes. “I was directed to a lovely tea and spice shop while I was there that allowed me to blend my own tea. It was fantastic. I order from them frequently.”
“You’re adorable.” Greg leaned over to kiss him. “Okay, so don’t laugh at me, but I’d really like to visit New York and see a Broadway musical. I don’t know why, I don’t go to the theatre here, like, at all, but it just seems like the most New York thing to do.”
“I would never laugh.”
“Yes, you would.”
Now Mycroft did laugh. “I won’t laugh about you wanting to see a musical, though. It really is a tourist experience you can’t miss.” He leaned over to set his empty cup on the tea tray. “Would you be open to attending the theatre here in London? I have access to nearly any production you’d wish to see. My trust is a large benefactor of the arts, especially theater.”
Greg considered that for a moment. “Yeah, I think I would. Not sure what I would wear, though.”
“It’s not like the Victorian era, most people attend in ordinary clothing. If we were to attend a black-tie opening or some such, I would ensure that you were appropriately attired.” Mycroft paused. “I would love to see you in a tuxedo.”
“Yeah? I’d love to see you in one, too. But I could use one or two nicer suits. My one semi-nice suit is pretty old.” He watched Mycroft’s face brighten with a feeling of foreboding.
“Would you allow me to assist you in finding a good suit?”
Greg eyed him with suspicion. “What’s the catch?”
Mycroft harrumphed. “There’s no catch. I would simply like to see you in a bespoke suit.”
“You know I can’t afford that.” Greg hated to see the defeated look on Mycroft’s face.
“Would you then allow me to make that your Christmas gift?” Mycroft knew that Greg’s pride would make it very difficult for him to simply buy him a new wardrobe.
“I’d feel bad, I can’t get you something of that value in return.”
Mycroft shook his head. “Money has nothing to do with the value of a gift. I want to do this because I love you, and know you would look like a film star in a well-fitted suit.”
Greg grinned, feeling immensely better. “A film star, huh?”
“I hesitate to contemplate how irresistible you would be in a bespoke suit, wearing your glasses, with your hair combed to be a bit spiky.”
“You like my hair like that better than how it is now?” He was absolutely tickled that Mycroft was so taken with the image. “I thought this was more mature since I’m a DCI now.”
“Dear god, when you met me with your hair like that and that black jacket with all of the zippers I nearly expired from arousal.”
“Really? Did you wank later?”
Mycroft was already flushed, but he turned beet red. “God, yes. More than once.”
“Did you find CCTV footage of me coming to your office?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Greg threw his head back and cackled. “You have it on your phone, don’t you?”
“Do shut up.”
“I love it. Do you have a shot of that time I was off duty so I was in a t-shirt and got soaked when I was helping someone with an open fire hydrant?”
“What about when I was absolutely fine, but no matter how much I protested the paramedics cut my shirt off?”
Greg laughed. “Do you have an entire file of pictures of me for wanking?”
“Not just for masturbating.” Mycroft attempted to defend himself. He looked away. “It really is a terrible invasion of your privacy. I apologize.”
Greg tugged on Mycroft’s hand so he’d look at him. “It really is. But I honestly don’t care. As long as you don’t have cameras in my flat, we’re good.”
“Of course not.”
Greg pulled on Mycroft’s arm until he rested against his chest. “I’ve just had to rely on my imagination when I wanted to wank over you.”
“You fantasized about me?” Mycroft was still unbelievably mortified, but relieved that Greg was so nonchalant about his behavior.
“Mhm. Lots of times.” He kissed the top of Mycroft’s head. “Long before Kristen and I split up.”
Greg chuckled at Mycroft’s tone of disbelief. “Yep.”
“What did you think about me doing?”
“Fucking me so hard I couldn’t remember my own name, preferably in a dangerous place.”
“Good lord, Greg. I had no idea.”
“Kristen knew before we ever got serious that I was attracted to male alphas, but it always bothered her that I got off on, um, being penetrated. She was never interested in indulging that, which was fine, but she also couldn’t stand it that sometimes I needed it. I could only ever wank when she wasn’t home.”
Mycroft squeezed him. “I’m sorry. Did she fear that your desires would lead you to be unfaithful?”
Greg nodded. “I’m sure that was it. Since being faithful was kind of a problem for her and all.”
“Have you heard from her at all since you divorced?”
“She calls every 4-5 months just to see what I’m doing. I figure that’s about the length of time her relationships are lasting before whoever she’s fucking gets sick of her shit, so she sees if I’m available. I’m not. Ever.”
Mycroft chuckled humorlessly. “Charming.”
They were quiet for a while, before Mycroft finally had to ask the question on which he was obsessing. “Are you really not bothered that I have been staring at pictures of you, sometimes for sexual gratification, that you were unaware had been taken?”
Greg laughed. “No, I really am not bothered that you were stalking me.” He shifted so that he could lift Mycroft’s chin. “I was always well-aware that you were monitoring me because of my association with Sherlock. I knew you had to be watching me carefully for you to trust me to be involved with your cases. I knew every one of our encounters was being videotaped or observed until we started meeting at your club, and even then you made sure that I was escorted by you, Andrea, or your driver every time. I knew you were watching me. If I hadn’t known, this would be extremely creepy. But that you have a couple of completely innocent pictures of me on your phone? Not a big deal.”
“I have 5 pictures. The spiked hair and black jacket, the wet shirt, two where your shirt had been removed, and one where you were obviously being cheeky and blew a kiss at a camera.”
“Yep, that one was just for you.” He kissed the tip of Mycroft’s nose. “If I’d had a way to get a couple pics of you to pine after, I would have, too.”
“Truly.” Greg smiled. “Relax.”
Mycroft’s phone buzzed on the nightstand, and he reluctantly pulled away from Greg to check it. It was a weather alert. “Significantly more snow is expected tonight.” He looked at Greg, concerned. “We need to check the road conditions to see if I can get home today.”
Greg nodded, already looking at his own phone. “If you’re going to spend a couple days with me, you should at least have the choice.” He looked up. “It would have been smart for me to bring home my laptop.”
“I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve left mine at work in the last year. Of course, this would be one of those times.”
With a sigh, Greg held out his phone for Mycroft to see. “I don’t think they’re going to get to my neighborhood any time soon.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“I believe that I have the power and connections to ensure your neighborhood is cleared by late this afternoon.”
“Isn’t that abusing your position, though?”
Mycroft shook his head. “Were I doing it just to ensure our own enjoyment and wellbeing, then yes, it would be. However, it is actually a matter of national security that I be able to work tomorrow, even if it is from home.”
“Hopefully I’ll be able to work tomorrow, too.”
He motioned for Greg to be quiet as he held the phone to his ear. “Yes, hello, Jeremy, so pleasant to talk to you. Ah hah. Ah hah. Well, you see, there’s a flaw in your plan. Ah hah. Well, you may think what you wish, but you will make it possible for DCI Lestrade to travel to New Scotland Yard by this evening.”
Greg watched Mycroft’s face during a long pause. He appeared amused.
“Why, yes, it is important that the unofficial liaison between MI6 and the Metropolitan Police be allowed to resume work as soon as possible, I’m so very glad that you agree.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Jeremey. He works for me. It is actually a matter of global security.”
Greg stifled laughter as he watched Mycroft’s face change over the course of what ‘Jeremy’ was saying.
“As always, it has been a pleasure speaking with you.” He rang off.
Greg was laughing. “You can be very persuasive. This is all about me?”
“Absolutely all about you, dearest, it is a matter of global security that you go into work this evening.”
“And not-so-incidentally, you can go home.”
Greg scooted across the bed to kiss him. “It’s early yet. How can we ever find a way to fill the time?”
“I suppose we could wash the dishes. Watch telly. Fold laundry.”
“Uh huh.” He gave Mycroft another, longer, deeper kiss.
Mycroft hummed happily into the kiss. “We do need to remove the dishes from the bed if this is to go where we both desire.”
“Yah, I don’t have enough dishes to break them in a fit of passion.” Greg eased off the bed and picked up the tray. “Be right back.”
Mycroft took the moment to remove his (Greg’s) pajamas, and was lounging against the pillows, naked, when Greg returned. He watched Greg’s pupils dilate with arousal. “Do come to bed, Greg.”
Greg stripped off his shirt as he approached the bed and took approximately 3 seconds to remove his pants before he crawled back onto the bed and basically attacked Mycroft’s mouth. He felt Mycroft getting hard against him, and moaned. “God you’re so fucking hot.” He kissed him again.
Mycroft speared his fingers into Greg’s hair and pulled just a bit. Greg released his mouth to drop his head back. “What do you want?” he whispered, voice low and dangerous.
Greg moaned again. “Whatever you want.”
He rolled Greg onto his back and bit down hard on his neck. “I seem to recall a desire for me to fuck you so hard you can’t remember your own name.”
“God yes,” Greg whimpered out. “Please fuck me.”
Mycroft bit his neck again, and moved down his chest. “Hmm, do you think I can make you beg?”
“I’m basically begging right now.”
“Then you should probably get on your hands and knees.” Mycroft grabbed the lubricant from the bedside table while Greg moved with a soft moan. He moved behind Greg’s gorgeous arse and slicked his fingers.
“Patience, Gregory.” He gently rubbed his slippery fingers over Greg’s entrance. “Do you like that?”
“Yes,” he whimpered. “If I beg will you go faster?”
“You can always try.” Mycroft slowly eased two fingers into his arse.
“Not yet.” He continued to tease Greg with soft, gentle movements before pulling his fingers out and adding a third. “I don’t want it to be uncomfortable.”
“It won’t, you know it won’t, please, Mycroft!”
Mycroft maintained his slow, gentle pace as Greg became more and more restless. Finally, when he couldn’t take it anymore, he pulled out and spread lubricant on his erection. “Hmm, do you want it Gregory? Do you want my cock in your arse? Do you want me to fuck you?”
“Yes, please,” Greg begged. “Please, Mycroft.” That was on a broken sob.
He leaned over, and stroked Greg’s shoulder gently. “I love hearing you beg.” Then he gripped a handful of Greg’s hair and forced his shoulders down to the bed. “Now I’m going to fuck you so hard you can’t remember your own name, and you’ll be begging me to let you come.”
“God yes,” Greg whimpered.
“Keep your head down, Gregory.” He released his hair so that he could steady himself. He pushed into Greg’s tight body, and started thrusting. Greg cried out. After a few moments he slowed, moving gently in his body. “Are you sure you don’t want it like this?””
“No, please, please fuck me hard, Mycroft, please--”
Before Greg could finish the last ‘please,’ Mycroft began pounding him, harder than he’d ever fucked him. It was exhilarating to have that kind of control over Greg, and for Greg to want it, to want Mycroft to take him like this. The pleasure was almost overwhelming, the physical sensations and the emotional connection. Greg was continuing to beg, it was clear that he was loving this just as much as he was.
“Mycroft, I’m gonna come,” Greg gasped.
“Not until I tell you than you can.”
“Oh god, please, please, Mycroft, please--”
“Not yet.” He continued to pound into Greg. He was actually close, too.
Greg began a litany of ‘please’ broken only by little sobs.
“Are you going to come without me touching you, Gregory?”
“Yes, god, yes--”
“Then do it.”
Greg practically screamed. Mycroft kept pounding into him for a few moments before he, too, reached orgasm. The both collapsed to the bed. It took Mycroft a few moments to be able to pull out of Greg’s body and lay on the bed beside him. Greg’s face was turned away from him, and he began to grow concerned.
“Greg? Are you alright?”
Greg turned his head on the pillow and gave Mycroft a slow, languid smile. “Oh yeah.”
Mycroft leaned over to kiss his shoulder. “I take it you enjoyed that?”
“God, yes.” Greg managed to heft himself up so he could lie on his side facing Mycroft. “Thanks for fulfilling one of my fantasies.”
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“Hm-mm. I’ll probably be sore later, but it was totally worth it.” He laughed at Mycroft’s concerned look. “No really, totally worth it.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Every time I sit down, I’ll think of you,” he joked.
Mycroft laughed a little. “Alright.”
“I’m facing another one of those dilemmas.”
“The kind where I really want to wash all of the come off of my body but I really want to stay in bed.”
“Charming. For what it’s worth, I’d recommend we shower.”
Greg stretched then rolled over. “Pity we can’t do both at the same time.”
“You’re absurd.” He enjoyed the site of Greg’s firm buttocks as he walked to the bathroom. It was absolutely disgusting, and he would never admit it to anyone, but he got a tiny thrill from seeing the evidence of their lovemaking on Greg’s dusky skin.
After showers were taken and dishes were washed, Mycroft joined Greg on the sofa with tea. It was snowing again. Or still. Greg had lit a fire again and it was warm and cozy in the sitting room. “This is lovely, Greg.”
“Lovely for being stuck at home when you have a million things to do, you mean?”
Mycroft sighed. “Indeed. Spending time with you is always lovely. But I worry about what could be happening while I’m not at my post, so to speak.”
Greg understood. “I know. We have to remind ourselves that the world really can go on without us sometimes.” Greg took of sip of his coffee. “Plus, everyone we work with stayed home, too.”
“That does make me feel a bit better.” Mycroft just watched the flames and sipped his tea for a few moments. “We may both be stuck at home tomorrow, as well, if we get as much snow as predicted.”
“But at least we’ll both have a chance to get our computers and files we need tonight before the next wave.”
Mycroft looked at Greg, surprised. “When I told Jeremy you needed to be able to go to the office this evening, I did not mean that you actually had to go.”
“If I can get to work, I’m going to go and at least get my laptop. If I get suck here a couple days, I need to be able to work from home. There are three files sitting on my desk that need attention, and two discipline reports that I need to review. I can do that all from here tomorrow if I have my computer.”
“Very responsible of you.” He leaned over and kissed Greg’s cheek. “I will most likely go to the office tonight as well. I have a computer at home that I can use, but I feel a strong need to be sure that my office and materials are secure since neither I nor Andrea were there today.”
“Can I ask a favor that might be a slight abuse of power?”
Mycroft gave Greg a quizzical look. “What is it?”
“If we ride together over to the Yard, could you send your driver back later to take me home so I don’t have to take the Tube?” And therefore don’t have to trudge through so much damned snow?
“That’s not an abuse of power at all, dearest. Of course.” He picked up Greg’s phone and handed it to him. “Unlock it and I’ll add the number you can text to get a driver at any time.”
“I don’t really need a chauffeur. I’d feel really weird getting driven around all the time.”
Mycroft chuckled. “It increases how pretentious you seem by at least 50% when you are driven everywhere. However, in emergency situations, you may feel free to avail yourself of this service.”
“Thanks, love. I appreciate it.”
“Think nothing of it.” He passed Greg back his phone.
“Hey, wanna take a ‘snowed-in’ selfie?”
Greg laughed. “So we can remember the day we both missed work because it snowed so damned much. We can commemorate it.”
“With a photograph? With whom do you wish to share it?”
“You sound so scandalized. I wasn’t going to share it with anyone but you.”
Mycroft considered it for a moment. Even with Greg’s assurances, he felt uncomfortable with his appearance. “Alright.”
Greg grinned and pulled Mycroft close. He held the phone out in front of them where they were cuddled together. “Ready?”
Mycroft felt too self-conscious to look that the screen, and at the last moment turned to kiss Greg’s cheek instead. I hope he isn’t too disappointed.
“Look, this is adorable.” Greg held out the phone for Mycroft to see. “You’re always so worried about how you look, you’ve got to stop, look at how gorgeous you are.”
“It is a very nice photograph, but I must insist that you are the reason it is so adorable. Your smile can light up rooms, Greg.”
“Let’s take another one, and this time you smile. I want you to see how beautiful you are when you smile.”
Mycroft gave him a look. “When I smile on command, I look psychotic.”
Greg laughed. “I’ll give you a reason to smile when I’m ready to take the picture. Here, snuggle with me.”
Cuddling close to Greg was easy, and Mycroft started to wonder how he had ever survived without Greg’s touch. How had he ever been warm before this? Had he ever actually been happy before? He simply couldn’t imagine any of those things without Greg. He felt Greg’s lips kissing gently behind his ear and couldn’t help but smile, it tickled in the best way, and Greg knew it. Before he could turn away, Greg snapped the photo.
“See? I told you.” Greg held the phone so that Mycroft could see. “That smile is what I live for every day. That smile makes me fall in love with you over and over again. You, Mycroft Holmes, are gorgeous, and I’m going to make sure you know it.”
Mycroft couldn’t help but like the picture, Greg looked especially precious kissing him, and he had to admit that his smile did at least make him look…better. Younger, maybe. Happy, certainly. It was probably the first good picture he’d seen of himself in 20 years, and the only one in which he was not serious. “It is quite nice.”
“I’m going to make this my phone wallpaper so I can see you smile at me all the time.”
“I believe I will do the same with first picture.”
“Perfect. We’ll be that couple.”
Mycroft laughed. “I normally do not put a picture on my phone screen, this will be quite a large step for me.”
“You’ve been on my screen since you first texted me that picture from the plane.”
“You’re unreasonably adorable sometimes, Greg.”
Late that night, after negotiating snowy roads, retrieving computers and files, arranging for groceries to be delivered, and appeasing Mummy with Christmas plans, Mycroft took a moment to look at the pictures that Greg had sent him.
In some ways, he looked like a completely different person, someone he would not recognize if he saw him on the street. His hair had been allowed to air dry, and was softly wavy on his forehead. He had stubble, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been photographed with stubble (and his was alarmingly ginger). His eyes were nearly closed, only a little sliver of blue showing, and his mouth was just a bit open as he smiled. A happy, smiling man who was only 43, not old at all, who was absolutely the equal of his handsome boyfriend. A man who deserved to be happy. A man who was more than just a brain in an office. Before he could stop himself, he snapped a picture of himself wearing the soppy smile that loving Greg had evoked. He put it in a text message.
I love you, Greg. – MH
He waited a few moments, then a message popped into the inbox. It was a video of Greg blowing him a kiss.
I love you too, Myc. – G
Your pic was seriously cute. – G
Greg thought he was cute. That was very warming.
Perhaps I shall send you more photographs in the future. – MH
PLEASE! – G
Mycroft laughed softly to himself.
You must return the favor, my love. – MH
Absolutely. – G
But it would be even better if we took more selfies together. – G
Being with you does tend to improve the chances of me smiling. – MH
We’ll just have to spend more time together then. – G
Perhaps we can get snowed in at my flat next. – MH
Maybe we could plan that trip to the Caribbean instead. – G
Less snow. – G
With a chuckle, Mycroft pulled up a picture on his phone of a resort he was fond of, perched on the hillside of a lush private island.
Would this do? – MH
Yes. That would do. – G
Holy shit. – G
It is lovely, isn’t it? Very private. Perhaps in the fall of next year? – MH
Sounds amazing. – G
Gotta get some sleep just in case I actually can get to work tomorrow. It’s snowed another 6 cm. – G
Sleep well, dearest. I love you. – MH
I love you too, Mycroft. – G
As he settled into the blankets, Mycroft looked at the picture again. We’re happy. We’re happy together. I make Greg happy, just as he makes me happy.
Perhaps when we take that trip next year, we can bond.
What a thrilling thought. Mycroft fell asleep, thinking of palm trees and warm breezes instead of intelligence reports for a change.
Chapter 20: will always sing
OMG I'm so sorry this has taken so long! I have severe carpal tunnel syndrome, and I got the point where I could only type for a few minutes before my hand went numb. THEN I had surgery, and it's taken me two weeks to be able to type again! I had hoped to spend my time off from work writing, but no such luck.
BUT just in time for Christmas, I have the Christmas chapters! Here's part one, I'm dividing it up so I can post it now! Beware of falling fluff.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
“Are you sure I look alright?”
Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Yes, Greg, you look perfect. My mother will love you, do stop fretting.”
Greg gave himself a critical review in the full-length mirror. Grey trousers, grey and white shirt (sort of a loose plaid, he had no idea what it was called), and his green jumper. “You’re sure I shouldn’t wear a jacket?” But no tie. Never a tie.
Mycroft went to stand behind Greg, and looked at his reflection. He, himself, was wearing a tan suit with a subtle plaid and sage velveteen waistcoat. “Greg, my love, you look absolutely gorgeous. I’ve told you before that this jumper suits you. My mother absolutely does not expect you to wear a suit. My father will likely change is usual attire only in that he always wears a red bowtie on Christmas.”
“I’m just nervous.”
“I know, dearest.” He kissed Greg’s cheek and pulled away. “We need to leave in a few moments.”
Greg followed Mycroft out to the sitting room. “Is one of us driving or are we being driven?”
“I planned to drive rather than take one of my staff away from holiday festivities.”
“Nice of you. I’ll actually get to see you drive.”
“Let’s hope I remember how,” Mycroft joked.
It wasn’t a terribly long drive to the Holmes family estate…er, cottage. Greg was surprised to see that Mycroft’s parents lived in a quaint little house with old trees and wild garden surrounding it.
“Somehow, I thought your parents would have a huge manor house.”
Mycroft chuckled. “We do have a big, draughty estate, but I’m the only one that stays there. After Sherlock and I were grown, Mummy and Father moved to the Cottage. We also have a lovely property in Sussex that Sherlock has always been fond of that will pass to him when the inevitable occurs.”
Suddenly, the front door burst open. “Mikey, don’t keep the poor man standing in the cold, come in the house!”
“’Mikey?’” Greg whispered. Mycroft just rolled his eyes.
“Hello, Mummy,” Mycroft greeted with the tone of the eternally put-upon. He kissed her cheek. “Please allow me to introduce my boyfriend, Greg Lestrade.”
“Of course, I’ve seen you on the telly, but you’re ever so much more handsome in person,” Mummy bubbled. “Do come in. Siger, come meet Mikey’s beau. And take their coats.”
Greg was shocked to see that Mycroft’s father was a jovial, extremely ordinary, quite tall gentleman with a head of silver curls and a kind smile. And the bowtie. He’d pictured an older Sherlock; rude, cold, and distant. Both of Mycroft’s parents were just so, well, ordinary.
“It’s lovely to meet both of you.” Greg shook Siger’s hand and accepted a cheek kiss from Violet.
“You’re the detective from the telly, that works with Sherlock, so nice to meet you.” Siger indicated that they should take off their coats. “I can’t believe you willingly associate with both of them. They’re my boys, and I love them, but neither one is a walk in the park. And both at once?”
Greg chuckled uncomfortably. “Um…”
“Siger, what an awful thing to say, don’t pay him any mind, Greg.” Violet made a shooing motion to Siger and he vanished down the hall with their coats.
“It really is a wonder that you’ve continued to associate with Sherlock so long,” Mycroft joked. “I, however, am a ray of sunshine at all times.”
Greg laughed. “Of course you are, darling.”
“Now, I hope you like a roast for the holidays, Greg, I’ve got one in the oven.”
“Of course.” Greg smiled. “Do you need any help in the kitchen?”
“Greg is a phenomenal cook,” Mycroft commented.
“I won’t say no!” Violet bustled into the kitchen with Greg and Mycroft following. “There are plenty of potatoes to peel and carrots to chop!”
A commotion at the front door drew all of their attention. A low baritone with a tone of absolute boredom was complaining loudly.
“Sherlock’s here.” Greg laughed when Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Come on, love, dinner with Sherlock will be fun!”
Mycroft glared. “Oh, yes, ever so.”
Greg squeezed his hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”
Mycroft kissed Greg’s cheek as Mummy rushed to greet her darling baby boy. “I warn you, Mummy favors him most annoyingly.”
“I’m sure he loves every minute of it.”
“Absolutely, but he complains loudly the entire time.”
“When doesn’t he?”
They trailed out to the sitting room to say hello to Sherlock and John. Greg noticed that John looked about as annoyed as Mycroft. Well, he did just spend an hour in the car with Sherlock. He clapped the shorter man on the shoulder. “Happy Christmas, mate. Nice drive?”
“There is no one more insufferable than Sherlock Holmes faced with enforced family merriment.”
Greg laughed. “I’m really not surprised.”
Predictably, the Holmes parents loved John as much as they did Greg, which appeared to both please and annoy Sherlock. Mycroft shared a look with Greg over peeling potatoes as Mummy talked about John’s many virtues, as if his relationship with Sherlock was already romantic. They silently agreed not to correct her.
“Tell me again why we’re doing this?” Mycroft asked as Mummy’s chatter began to turn too far toward his and Greg’s intimate life. Sherlock sulked into the room and dropped into a chair.
“Because you and Sherlock both have people in your lives that we needed to meet, and there is no better time than Christmas.” Mummy indicated an object on the table. “Mikey, is that your laptop?”
“Mycroft is the name you gave me, perhaps you could suffer through it to the end?” He ignored her admonishing look. “And yes, that is my laptop. The fate of the free world lies therein, and you put potatoes on it.”
“Then it shouldn’t be on the table.” She pointed to it. “And I don’t want you working on Christmas.”
John wandered into the kitchen as Mycroft was lifting the pan off of the laptop. “Mr. Holmes sent me to fetch Greg to show him baby pictures of Mycroft.”
“Dear god, no,” Mycroft groaned.
Greg’s look of glee made John cackle. “Oh, yes. I’ve been waiting for this day.”
Mycroft buried his head in his hands.
Violet shooed John and Greg out of the kitchen. “Go, go! They were both adorable!”
“I was so fat!” Mycroft wailed.
“He was so fat!” Sherlock laughed.
Greg and John both knew how much Sherlock’s comments hurt Mycroft. Greg leaned over the table to steal a kiss. “You must have grown out of it, you’re sexy as hell, now.”
Sherlock made a choking noise.
“Shut up,” John snapped. “Be nice, it’s Christmas.”
Sherlock gave John an appraising look, but said nothing.
Greg and John settled on either side of Siger on the sofa, helping hold the large photo album. Mycroft was an adorable baby, a little flame-haired cherub. His hair was wavy and curly as a toddler, and he made some of the pissiest faces Greg or John had ever seen. They’d dressed him in lots of jumpers and shorts with socks and loafers as a toddler.
“You dressed him just like little Prince George,” Greg laughed.
“He was completely unimpressed with being forced to wear clothes,” Siger commented. He flipped to the next page, where primary school Mycroft was rolling his eyes at the camera. “This was his first day of kindergarten.”
“Look at that hair!” John laughed, pointing. Mycroft’s red curls had been wetted down and combed flat, but a dry piece was puffy and sticking up in the back.
“No wonder he keeps it so neat now.” Greg turned the page, and spotted a photo of Mycroft holding baby Sherlock. He had the most awe-struck look on his face. “That’s a great picture.”
“Mycroft adored Sherlock. Absolutely adored him. Until Mycroft started his A-levels, they were inseparable.”
John met Greg’s eyes. “What pulled them apart?”
Siger shook his head sadly. “Until his last year of school, Mycroft sailed effortlessly through everything. When got to those classes, he knew perfection was the only option for him if he wanted to start on his preferred career track. He’d begged for Eton all his life, but we could never have afforded it. Once we saw what a withdrawn child he was, we were determined to keep him at an ordinary school with ordinary children anyway.”
“Sherlock felt abandoned,” Greg murmured.
“Terribly. But Sherlock has always been a bit immature, and he began saying absolutely wretched things to Mycroft. To have the little brother who’d worshipped him suddenly turn so cruel broke Mycroft’s heart.”
“And Sherlock could see exactly what would hurt the most, he sees everything.” John knew well Sherlock’s propensity for picking at open emotional wounds.
“He told me once that losing Sherlock would break his heart,” Greg whispered.
“When Mycroft was offering me money to spy on Sherlock, he did say he worries about him constantly.” John decided to change the subject by looking at another photo. “Is this Sherlock in a pirate hat? Mycroft told me that Sherlock wanted to be a pirate!”
Siger laughed. “He firmly believed he was a pirate, no wanting involved. He was a terror.”
“So cute, though,” Greg laughed, running a finger over a picture of muddy Sherlock with an equally muddy Irish setter puppy. “Who’s this?”
“That’s Redbeard, Sherlock’s faithful friend. Wherever Sherlock and Mycroft went, Redbeard followed. Sherlock would have taken the dog to school with him if we’d allowed it.”
“Is that his first chemistry set?”
“No, John, that was his second. The first he’d blown up in an experiment. This was not the last, either.”
Greg and John laughed. “Look, Mycroft at the piano, I love hearing him play.”
John gave Greg an understanding smile. “He finally played for you?”
“Yeah. It was amazing.”
Siger closed the book and reached for one on the coffee table. “Here are all of their recital photos!”
Dinner was a surprisingly civil affair, mostly because Mycroft refused to rise to Sherlock’s bait. At one point, the git tried to shame Mycroft for what was on his plate, and Greg shut him down with a look filled with more venom than a black mamba. He and John regaled Violet and Siger with tales of Sherlock and Mycroft being pretentious twats and the parents returned the favor with a lovely story about Mycroft’s antics when he was under anesthesia to have his wisdom teeth removed. Of course, that led to threats to show the Holmeses videos that Greg had taken when Sherlock had been drugged during the Adler affair. They were all drowsing around the fire in the sitting room nursing mulled wine when Violet piped up.
“Sherlock, you brought your violin, play for use, dear.”
“Absolutely not, Mummy.”
“Yes, do play for us, Sherlock,” Siger agreed.
“You know, I’ve only heard you play actual music once,” Greg commented. “Usually you just make ear-shattering screeching sounds.”
The room was silent for a moment. “Would you be willing to play, Mycroft?” Greg asked softly.
Mycroft regarded Greg, thoughts racing. Greg is proud of me, and thinks my talent is equal to Sherlock’s. It was very warming. “If you would enjoy it, then yes.” He chuckled at the looks of shock from the rest of the room as he moved to the piano. “When was the last time you had it tuned, Mummy?”
“Oh heavens, I have no idea, your father never touches it anymore.”
“I suppose I shall have to struggle through it.” Mycroft pulled out the bench and sat. It brought back so many memories to sit at this piano, where he’d learned to play, and he’d accompanied Sherlock as he learned the violin. “What would you like to hear first?”
“Should I put out a jar for tips, brother dear?”
“Could you not be a dick for like, I don’t know, five minutes?” John snapped. He was definitely not Mycroft’s biggest fan (kidnapping had a way of souring a relationship), but seriously, Sherlock could shut his mouth. “Consider it a Christmas gift to me.”
“Ignore him, John, he’s just sulking because we didn’t beg him enough,” Violet added with a pointed glare at her youngest.
Greg covered a smile with his wine mug. Seeing Mummy put Sherlock in his place would keep him warm on cold nights.
“I’d like to hear Silent Night.” Siger looked very pleased with his choice.
Mycroft was nervous about playing in front of Sherlock, but pushed it down. He would not be controlled by his younger brother. He contemplated various arrangements of the carol that he knew before playing a quick scale to see how badly the piano was out of tune. “I suppose it’s not too terrible,” Mycroft commented. “It feels odd to play piano in the sitting room again after all of these years.” He began the song with a simple arrangement, then added additional arpeggios and descants and all of the show-off things he could think of that would amuse his parents. Silent Night was a terribly boring piece of music without embellishments. He could hear soft singing from behind him. Greg actually had a nice voice, he’d said several times that he couldn’t sing and was tone deaf, but it wasn’t true. John, however, sounded terrible. Predictably, Mummy and Father were singing harmony together. A tiny round of applause followed the conclusion of the song.
“That was lovely, dear.” Violet was clearly happy that Mycroft was playing. “What about O Holy Night?”
“That sounds better on the violin,” Sherlock drawled.
“Wow, who do we know that brought a violin to the house today?” Greg asked sarcastically.
“I’m sure we could devise an arrangement for piano and violin with little effort,” Mycroft stated. “If you’re up to it, Sherlock, I don’t know how much improvisation you’ve done recently.”
The two stared at each other for a moment, Mycroft’s expression bland and innocent, Sherlock appearing suspicious. “I suppose I can’t let Mycroft butcher the piece on his own.” He took his time standing and retrieving his violin. “I’ll take the melody, you can plod through the accompaniment?”
“Ever the comedian,” Mycroft replied, rolling his eyes. “You should adjust your tuning for the piano. It’s overall an eighth of a step flat.”
“How can you tell?” John asked. “Nothing sounded out of tune.”
“Mycroft has perfect pitch,” Sherlock groused. “The piano is in tune with itself, at least.”
“And you don’t have perfect pitch, Sherlock?” Greg asked, the picture of innocent inquiry.
“His relative pitch is impressive,” Mycroft answered when Sherlock said nothing.
“Both boys inherited their father’s talents.” Violet smiled at Greg. “Mycroft learned oboe for a time at school, and Sherlock can play the piano if there is sufficient reward for him.”
“But they got their brains from their mum,” Siger replied, smiling warmly at his wife.
“Please, you’ve been married for nearly 40 years, stop,” Sherlock groaned.
“I’ll lead in, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked mildly.
“If we must.”
Greg held his breath. They were going to play together. Mycroft will be so happy.
Mycroft played softly, an intro of some kind, then Sherlock began the melody on the violin, and it was a kind of magical how perfect it was. Greg met John’s eyes, and they tacitly agreed that this was Christmas miracle. A few moments into Sherlock’s playing, it was clear that they were both invested in making it perfect.
So, it was. And for Greg, John, Violet, and Siger, it was magical.
“Wow,” Greg said into the silence. “I don’t know if that could have been better.”
“Really, that was beautiful,” John added.
“I suppose,” Sherlock replied with an air of haughty boredom but he couldn’t hide his pleasure.
“Thank you, Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured.
Violet had her hands clasped in front of her mouth and tears shimmered in her eyes. “Oh boys, that was beautiful! Play something else!”
“Any requests from the peanut gallery?” Mycroft asked over his shoulder.
“Something lively!” Violet suggested.
Mycroft looked up at Sherlock. “There is that arrangement of Deck the Halls in 7/8 time.”
“Then a madrigal!”
Sherlock gave his father a look. “Really?”
Siger huffed. “Yes. I like Ding Dong Merrily On High. It’s nice.”
“I can take the soprano, you can take other rest of the chorale?”
Mycroft nodded. He looked over to Greg. “Anything you’d like to hear, dearest?” He ignored his mother’s titter over the endearment.
“Is it lame that I really like What Child Is This? I know it’s just Greensleeves, but it’s so haunting.” John was staring at him. “What? I like music.”
“That’s enough, I can’t imagine enduring more merriment than three more carols.”
John rolled his eyes at his flatmate. “Humor us.”
Greg decided that 7/8 time made Deck the Halls at least 95% less annoying. Ding Dong Merrily On High was just as annoying when played by Mycroft and Sherlock, however. But What Child Is This? It was amazing.
The melody fell entirely to Sherlock’s violin, and just as Greg had told John, it was hauntingly beautiful. The brothers just seemed to know where to slow down and speed up, when to be louder or softer, and Sherlock’s skill had Greg holding his breath. Holy shit. He really can play. And Mycroft was so absorbed in it, his hair had fallen across his forehead and there was color in his cheeks. It really was a Christmas miracle. Resounding silence followed the last chord.
“Holy shit,” John breathed, echoing Greg’s thoughts. “That was bloody amazing.”
“One more, boys, then we’ll have pudding.”
“What song do you want to play, Mycroft?” Greg asked.
Mycroft thought for a moment. He really wanted to show off, but required Sherlock to cooperate. “Ave Maria, Sherlock?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Why do you like that piece so much?”
Mycroft actually didn’t know. He just did. “Some of my favorite sopranos have recorded it, and I greatly enjoy it.”
Greg noticed that John had his eyes closed and his head tipped back. This must be one of John’s favorites. Sherlock had to know that.
They all clapped when the brothers finished their little concert. Greg got up and went to Mycroft. He was smiling beatifically. “You were wonderful, love.” He pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s smiling lips.
“Thank you, Greg. Thank you for asking us to play.” For giving me my brother back for a few moments.
“Please don’t kiss in front of me,” Sherlock groused, sounding like a child. “It’s too much trouble to delete. Just don’t do it.”
“You played beautifully too, berk.”
“Of course, I did. I’m pleased that you haven’t lost too much skill in your old age, brother mine.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Considering that when I practice, I play actual music, rather than imitating a dying cat, it can’t be too surprising that I’ve retained my musical skills.”
Greg and John both laughed. “Too right,” John agreed. “Though he does play very nicely in the middle of the night when Mrs. Hudson is trying to sleep.” John didn’t mention the heartbreaking piece he’d written when Irene Adler had been found dead.
Violet reappeared from the kitchen carrying a tray laden with individual custard pies, each topped with a sparkling, sugar-crusted cranberry. “I’ve made us each a wee custard, come have one.”
Greg was charmed by the tiny pastries. “I’ve never made mini pies before, but now I want to.”
“I’ll take any tiny pies you want to practice on,” John offered. “I don’t especially like mince, if you’re taking orders.”
“I don’t like mince either.” Greg tasted the pie. It was heavenly. “I have a cream pie recipe that’s like no other cream pie you’ve ever had.”
“I like peach,” Mycroft commented.
“Strawberry,” Violet added and Siger seconded.
“No. Besides, I’d have to pretend it was for John for you to eat it anyway.”
“He actually likes blackberry.” Mycroft looked completely innocent as Sherlock glared at him. “What?”
“I’ll put a skull on it for you.”
After more cheek kisses, and hugs instead of handshakes, Mycroft and Greg found themselves in the car, slightly giddy from wine and sugar. “I love you, Myc. Your family is absolutely mad.”
Mycroft laughed. “They loved you. And yes, they are absolutely mad.” He leaned over and kissed him. “And I love you, too. Thank you for making this bearable.”
Greg waited to speak until Mycroft had pulled out of the driveway. “It was amazing to hear you and Sherlock playing together.”
“I would never have anticipated that.” Mycroft glanced at Greg briefly. “I haven’t ever been asked to play at a holiday gathering, only Sherlock has. And he normally refuses until he feels Mummy has begged enough. Or to make Auntie Aspasia shut up. Her voice is so grating.”
“You play like a master, there’s no reason not to perform when you have the chance. It was nice to see you two getting along for a little while.”
“It was…I don’t know what it was. But thank you.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence as they made their way back toward London. The moon was hazy behind the thin clouds, spreading a diffuse silver light over the landscape. There were few other cars on the highway, and they arrived back at Mycroft’s flat in good time. Sleepy, Greg leaned against Mycroft on the ride up the lift, and yawned as they made it through the front door.
“That was a very successful Christmas, but I’m beat.”
“I’m also tired. Let’s go to bed.” Mycroft turned off the lights as they walked toward the bedroom, though the lights on the small tree Greg had put up remained glowing. That brought a tiny smile to his lips. He’d never decorated for Christmas before, but Greg had insisted, and he had allowed a few small, tasteful items and a diminutive tree with white lights. He had negotiated with Greg that if he allowed him to dress up the flat for the holidays, he could not then decorate for any other holidays.
“Mycroft? Did you get lost?”
“Hardly, dearest, I was admiring your additions to my décor.” Mycroft kissed his partially-dressed boyfriend on the cheek. “Now I am admiring your physique.”
Greg laughed. “Thanks.” He turned down the bed and climbed in. “I’ll admire yours while you put on pajamas.”
Mycroft chuckled. “I’m afraid I’m too tired to be alluring.” He methodically removed his suit. “I’m surprised you don’t have any holiday-themed sleepwear.”
“No Christmas pajamas, sorry. I do have some socks with snowmen on them. I have some Valentine’s boxer shorts somewhere.”
“Appalling.” Mycroft slid beneath the blankets and cuddled into Greg’s chest. “I have no themed items of clothing. I’m sure you’re not surprised.”
“I’ll get you something. Then you’ll feel obligated to wear it.” Greg moved long enough to turn off the lights. “Santa Claus thong underwear or something classy like that.”
Mycroft burst out laughing. “No amount of love could impel me to wear thong underwear, festive or otherwise.”
They laughed together for a few moments before sharing a kiss. “Happy Christmas, Mycroft. I love you.”
“Happy Christmas to you, too, my love.”
Okay, so, back in the beginning of Sherlock, someone asked Mark Gatiss what instrument Mycroft played, since Sherlock played violin. He jokingly said it was the oboe, so I have an homage to that in here. If you have never heard Deck the Halls in 7/8 Time, find it on YouTube, your mind will be blown, and it is is sooooo much fun to sing! Mr. Holmes is wearing a red bowtie in His Last Vow, Benedict's wears that bowtie for Christmas so they added it in. I paraphrased a little of the scene from the kitchen, but didn't want it to be word-for-word because the situation was so much less serious.
I'm hoping to have all three parts of Christmas posted before Christmas. Hold me accountable! Sent me rude messages! :p
Greg woke to two things that were both wonderful and rare: Mycroft was still asleep, and he was turned toward him. It gave him the chance to cuddle into his warmth, resting his head on Mycroft’s chest and wrapping his arms around his thin frame. It was still early, he could tell from the light leaking in around the drapes. Christmas morning. With the man I love. There was no pressure to make the day anything specific with Mycroft. He normally didn’t celebrate at all, so he didn’t have a preconceived notion of how Christmas must be to enjoy it. They could stay in bed, have breakfast, share gifts, watch films on the telly, drink cocoa, just relax.
Greg hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep again until he was tugged into consciousness by soft, sweet, kisses, light as feathers, dropped on his cheeks, brow, and chin. He smiled and stretched, then tightened his arms around Mycroft. “Morning, love.” He felt a kiss land on his lips and returned it with happy affection.
“Happy Christmas, my love,” Mycroft murmured, kissing him again.
“Happy Christmas.” Greg pulled back a little to look into Mycroft’s sparkling eyes. “Any plans for the day?”
Mycroft ran his fingers through Greg’s messy hair smiled warmly. “Breakfast, most definitely. Tea. Perhaps a ridiculous holiday film. Maybe a bath later? A great deal of being in your close proximity.”
“Maybe a walk to look at holiday lights? Hot cider?”
“Hmm, that could be nice. I’ve not had cider in years.”
“We’ve both failed to mention the most important part of Christmas.”
“What on earth could that be?”
Greg grinned. “Presents, of course.”
Mycroft affected a wide-eyed look of surprise. “Was I supposed to buy you a gift?”
“Well, I bought you one. Or a few.”
With a quick kiss, Mycroft eased out of the bed. “Perhaps you’ll find a few under the tree, if Santa has been here.”
“Have I been a good boy?” Greg asked, following him out of the bed.
“Hmm, yes, a very good boy.”
Morning rituals took precedence for a few moments before they went in search of tea and coffee. “Do you open presents before or after breakfast?” Greg called from the kitchen to where Mycroft was looking out the window.
“Before breakfast is the norm, isn’t it? I was always forced to endure an excruciatingly long holiday breakfast before I was allowed to open gifts as a child.”
“So, you’re saying you’d rather have breakfast first,” Greg teased. He took two steaming mugs into the sitting room. “Here, love.”
“Thank you. Must we sit on the floor to open the gifts, or can we sit on the sofa? I’m afraid my 43-year-old joints are not as enthusiastic about the floor as they once were.”
Greg laughed. “We should sit on the sofa, since my 45-year-old joints aren’t too keen on the floor either. Here, take my coffee, I’ll bring over the gifts.” He passed his mug to Mycroft and collected the brightly-wrapped packages from beneath the tree. “Too many of these are for me.”
Setting the gifts on the coffee table, Greg joined Mycroft on the sofa with a kiss on the cheek. “Who’s going first?”
“Well, I already went for my first fitting on the suit, so there, I opened my first gift, your turn.”
Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “That’s cheating.” The suit he’d ordered for Greg wouldn’t be ready for a few more weeks. “Open another one.”
“No, you have to open one of yours.”
They stared each other down for a few moments before Mycroft started laughing. “Fine, you win, I’ll open—this one.” He picked up a box. It was neither large nor small, neither light nor heavy, made a neutral amount of noise when manipulated. “Did you do something to make it impossible for me to guess? I normally can deduce a gift before it’s opened.”
“Lined it with lead so you can see through it with x-ray vision.” Greg watched happily as Mycroft began carefully removing the packaging. “You don’t have to save the paper for next year, you can tear it.”
“I like to take my time, thank you very much.”
When the paper fell away, it revealed an absolutely unremarkable white box, which Mycroft then opened…to find a smaller box wrapped in a different paper. He glared. “Really?”
Greg grinned. “I didn’t do that with all of them.”
This box got the same careful treatment as the first. Inside was a beautifully carved wooden box. “What on earth?” Mycroft lifted it out gently, then lifted the lid. “Hand-blended masala chai? It smells amazing.” It was clearly loose tea that had been spooned into the silk sachets by hand. “Where on earth did you find this? I’ve been to India and not found anything like this.”
“It’s a secret.” Greg accepted a kiss from his love. “I’m glad you like it.”
“It’s beautiful. I can’t wait to try it.” Mycroft carefully set the box on the table. “You now.”
Greg reached for a long but not-too-tall box. He shook it carefully and it made kind of a whooshing noise. “Is it a scarf?”
“Just open it.”
Greg tore the paper off, opened the box, and indeed, found a scarf. But it was possibly the most beautiful scarf he’d ever seen. “Oh wow,” he whispered, running his hand over it. It was so soft it almost didn’t have a texture. “It’s like, every color of a peacock. And so soft.”
“Try it on.”
Eager to feel that fabric on his skin, Greg wrapped it around his neck and pressed the ends to his cheeks. “What is this made of?”
“Posh. How did you know I was wanting a different scarf?” Mycroft gave him a look. “Of course, you knew.” He leaned over and kissed the “you’re an idiot” look off his boyfriend’s face. “I love it.” He picked up one of his gifts for Mycroft. “Open this one next.”
This one was heavy. He assumed it was fragile by the weight, so didn’t shake it. Slowly removing the paper revealed a blue box. “What comes in a shimmery blue box?”
Greg laughed. “You’ll find out when you take all of the paper off.” He watched Mycroft’s torturously slow package unwrapping. “Hurry up.”
“Hush.” The blue box was unmarked, but had swirls printed on the top. “Greg, how did you find so many mysterious things for me?”
“It’s heavy, be careful.”
“I will.” The box contained one large, wrapped object and several smaller objects. Impatient now, Mycroft removed the tissue. “Oh, this is lovely.” It was a small, earthenware teapot, glazed in celadon green. “Are these matching cups?”
“Yes. Look at one.”
Mycroft set the pot aside and unwrapped a simple, elegant cup. As with most genuine Japanese sets, there were five. “Are these stamped by the artist?”
Greg nodded. “The pot is too, but yes, they’re handmade. For you.”
He looked at Greg with wide eyes. “You commissioned them for me specifically?” He turned the cup on end to look on the bottom. Next to the artist’s stamp, was a second of his initials. “This is amazing, Greg. I love it.”
“You’re welcome.” He reached for his second-to-last gift. “I hope this is gloves.”
Mycroft glared at him. “Open it.”
It was two pairs of gloves. “Oh, wow, Mycroft, are these handmade?” They fit perfectly, even though they were beautiful thin leather for driving, which usually were too tight across his knuckles.
“Yes, they’re fitted to you.”
“You’ve never measured my hands.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “I’ve held your hands. Many times.”
“Of course.” He pulled the second pair out, shearling this time. “These look just as amazing. And warm.” He tugged one of the lined leather gloves onto his hand. “Perfect, of course. My hands will never ache from the cold again.” He leaned in for another kiss. “I keep guessing your gifts and you keep not guessing mine.”
“It’s rather unnerving.” He picked up his own second-to-last gift. “This is socks.”
Greg laughed. “It’s not socks. I wouldn’t give you socks for Christmas.”
Mycroft shook the box again. “Underwear.”
“No, I wouldn’t give someone underwear either. Just open it.”
The paper for this gift was stiffer than the others, and it took a little longer to carefully unfold from the box. “Oh, it isn’t socks. It’s a tie.”
“And a pocket square.”
“Thank goodness. It’s a lovely tie.”
“You wouldn’t be so unimpressed if you actually looked at it.”
Mycroft held up the strip of deep green silk. “Well, you do get points for selecting a tie that is not a color I already have.” It had a pattern. “Dear lord, Greg, are those umbrellas?”
Greg was grinning ear to ear. “Yes. From far away it will look like geese or something lame like that, but the people who know you will see your love of umbrellas carry over to your work wear.”
“You are incorrigible. And I’m ashamed to say I actually quite like it.” He lifted Greg’s final gift from the coffee table. “It’s not socks.”
“Nah, too small and too heavy. Must be a lump of coal.” Greg opened the box carefully, assuming the contents were fragile and expensive. Inside the tasteful dark green paper was a smooth black box. “Is it a watch?” He opened it without waiting for Mycroft to answer. “It is a watch. Mycroft, it’s gorgeous!”
“Do you like it?” Mycroft smiled fondly at Greg’s obvious enthusiasm. It was, in fact, a gorgeous watch. Tag Heuer watches were nice in general, but this one was especially Greg. He knew that Greg preferred indestructible items, and this watch would survive nearly anything. It had a round face, Greg’s preference, and the bezel was actually dark titanium rather than gold. The face of the watch was a rich blue, but the hands and additional dials were gold. Although Greg typically wore black, he knew that the warm brown calfskin band would look perfectly fine with all of his attire. The watch was extremely masculine but still elegant. “I thought it had a bit of James Bond mystique to it.”
“I love it. I’m almost scared to touch it, it’s so nice.” He wasn’t even going to imagine how much Mycroft had spent on it.
“Nonsense. It’s meant to be worn every day, it won’t break easily.” He watched Greg place it on his wrist. “You look at least 34% more dashing than just a moment ago.”
Greg laughed. “Thanks. Okay, last one.” He handed the small package to Mycroft. He had been wracking his brain to think of something meaningful to get him. Yes, the tea set was nice (his friend Tim had introduced him to the artist at the pub one night), and the tea box was nice (Tim’s girlfriend’s mum was from India and ran a really posh spice and tea shop), and the tie was nice (it was actually from the Mycroft’s tailor’s shop, he’d seen it when he’d gone for his fitting). He’d wanted to give him something that said, “I’m head over heels for you” not just “you’re a great boyfriend, happy holidays.” Greg had been terribly unsure of the gift when he bought it, but hoped Mycroft would understand how much love was behind it.
“It can only be jewelry of some kind,” Mycroft commented quietly. “Must be the diamond earrings I was asking for.” Greg had wrapped this one with more care, so it took correspondingly longer to open. Inside the paper was a smooth black box, and in that, a soft midnight blue velvet one. He pulled it out, hoping it was something he’d like, so he didn’t disappoint Greg. He had no idea what it could be, and couldn’t plan a reaction.
“Yes, the diamond earrings.” Greg bit his lip watching him lift the lid. “I hope you like it.”
Mycroft was completely surprised to see, resting on the blue velvet inside, a masculine ID bracelet, not delicate or feminine, but still understated and elegant. Yellow gold, his preference, and inscribed on the front were his initials, MH, beautifully worked. “Greg, this is lovely. How did you know?”
“I didn’t know until yesterday. I saw that in all of your high school photos, you were wearing an ID bracelet. I asked your father what happened to it and he didn’t know, or where it came from in the first place.”
“My Latin teacher gave it to me when I was 14. It said ovum bonum, ‘good egg.’ He saw good in me where others only saw ambition, and told me I was a ‘good egg.’ When I was at university, my tutor told me that jewelry was unbecoming of a man, so I stopped wearing it sometime during my second year. I don’t know what happened to it, I lost track of it. I miss it now and again.”
“You are a good egg.” Greg smiled. “I had the back engraved, too.”
Mycroft lifted the bracelet and turned it around to see the message.
Je t'aimerai toujours, mon beau – xx Greg
He thought of all of the times that Greg had called him beautiful or gorgeous, in passion and just in passing, and the sentiment of it warmed him, and he felt his eyes getting teary. “I will always love you as well,” he whispered. “Always, Greg. Even when I’m insufferable and a chore to be around, know that I love you.” He leaned over and pressed their lips together.
Greg smiled against Mycroft’s lips, and cupped his jaw. “Even when you’re insufferable and a chore to be around, know that I love you anyway.”
“Here, put it on my wrist.” Mycroft held out the bracelet to Greg, and presented his right wrist.
Greg had been worried about it fitting, since Mycroft had slender wrists, but had measured, much like Mycroft had, from pinning him to the pillows in bed. “Look, it’s perfect.”
Mycroft lifted his hand to see how far it hung from his wrist, and how much it fell across the back of his hand. “It is perfect. How did you know the size?”
“I’ve held you down in bed.” Greg grinned when Mycroft laughed. “It worked.”
“It looks quite nice, thank you dearest.” He leaned over for another kiss. “I shall think of you even more often now.”
“Me too, with the watch.” Greg looked at it. “It’s a really cool watch.”
“The company originally supplied watches to pilots. You’ll see that one of the insets is an altimeter. In fact, you can safely fly to a very high altitude with it, for the ‘glass’ is actually a clear sapphire, and will not crack due to changing pressure and gravitational forces.”
“What? Seriously? A sapphire?”
Mycroft laughed at the look of shock and horror on Greg’s face. “They’re produced in a laboratory, dearest, do not fret over the cost.”
“Nice try, I bought a lab-created sapphire necklace for Kristen once, they’re still expensive.”
“Hush, and enjoy the gift. It is but a fraction of the value of our time spent together.”
“Did you just…make a pun?”
Mycroft replayed his words. “Oh bother, I did. It was unintentional.”
“No, it was perfect.” Greg scooted over so he could properly put his arms around his beloved. “I love you so much, Mycroft. All of my gifts were lovely. Happy Christmas.” He pressed a warm kiss to his boyfriend’s lips.
Wrapping his arms around Greg, Mycroft returned the kiss with enthusiasm. “My gifts were all perfect, Greg, thank you. I’m not sure how we’ll top these gifts next Christmas.”
“We could take a vacation and call that our gift to each other. Avoid our families entirely.”
“You, my love, are brilliant.”
“I know.” They shared another kiss. “What would you like for breakfast, love?”
“I, am going to make you, waffles.”
Greg was delighted. “I had completely forgotten that you have a waffle iron.”
“Well, in your defense, it is very seldom used.” Mycroft stretched as he got off of the couch. “Perhaps we should remove our new accessories before making waffle batter.”
“That is a very good idea.” Greg unfastened his watch, then unhooked Mycroft’s ID bracelet. “Will you be able to put it on and take it off without me?”
“Yes, but it is much more fun to make you do it.”
“You love my arse,” Mycroft shot over his shoulder as he walked into the kitchen.
Greg laughed. “You’re right, I do.” He watched Mycroft get the waffle iron from a top cupboard. “Do you have waffle mix, or are you gourmet-ing the batter yourself?”
“A mix? Heaven forbid.” He started pulling out ingredients. “What would you like to top these? Butter and syrup? Or fruit and whipped cream? We have both.”
“I’ll take all of the above.” Greg pulled the strawberries out of the fridge. “Canned whipped cream, though.”
“Are you terribly disappointed?”
“Of course not.” He started rinsing the strawberries. “I can spray it on your body and lick it off later.”
“Good heavens, Greg.”
Greg looked up to see Mycroft wide-eyed and flushed. “You’ve never considered that, have you?”
“I’ve always thought that sex and food should not be comingled.”
“Well, some foods that get used in romance novels and porn really don’t work, like honey and maple syrup. I read one that involved putting slices of melon--”
“STOP.” Mycroft could imagine where the melon went. “That’s vile.”
“It’s pretty gross. But whipped cream and chocolate sauce are safe bets.”
Mycroft had mixed the batter and was heating the waffle iron. “I’m not sure my bedding is interested chocolate sauce going anywhere other than ice cream or cheesecake.”
Greg laughed. “It’s a sticky mess, but has a good consistency for licking off of someone.”
“Dear lord, Greg, is there anything you haven’t done?”
“Well, I’ve never done the melon thing.” He laughed at Mycroft’s expression. “Really, only whipped cream and chocolate sauce have happened. No other foods.”
“Thank god for small favors.” He ladled the batter onto the waffle iron and closed it. “Are you going to be upset if I don’t want you to lick whipped cream off of my body?”
“I was mostly teasing, love. No, I will not be upset.” Greg walked over to the waffle station to kiss Mycroft on the cheek. “Your sheets are safe.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.” He pulled the first batch of waffles off the iron and poured more batter. “These are very symmetrical, I’m most pleased.”
“I can write a book, ‘Mycroft Holmes and the Pursuit of Waffle Symmetry.’” He’d mixed the rinsed and sliced strawberries with sugar and was warming the maple syrup.
“It is a noble pursuit that few can appreciate.” They were quiet for a moment while the waffles cooked. “Excellent, this batch is also symmetrical.”
“I hope they taste as good as they look. Put them on plates? I’ll go grab our cups off the coffee table.”
Seated at the breakfast bar, Greg heaped butter, fruit, syrup, and whipped cream on his waffles. “These look amazing.”
“Will you even be able to taste them?”
“Shush.” They ate in happy silence for a few moments. “Yes, I can taste them. They’re delicious.”
“We should toast a wonderful Christmas morning.” Mycroft raised his tea mug.
Greg raised his coffee cup. “To a wonderful first Christmas, and the rest of them being just as drama free.”
Mycroft tapped his mug to Greg’s. “To a wonderful first Christmas, sans drama.”
The rest of the morning was just as idyllic. After cleaning up the breakfast mess, they decided to watch Greg’s favorite Christmas movie (Die Hard) with more tea and coffee. As was often the case, Greg turned their attention completely away from the film with his wandering hands and lips.
“Don’t you want to see how the film ends?” Mycroft gasped. Greg was kissing his neck and rubbing his rapidly-hardening erection through his pajamas.
“I know how it ends. I know how this is going to end, too.” He pulled Mycroft’s shirt up and over his head, then proceeded to smear kisses down his chest.
“Do you, now?”
“Mhm. It’s going start with your cock in my mouth and end with you screaming my name.” He slipped his hands inside the soft cotton of Mycroft’s pants, and pulled them down. Mycroft lifted his hips automatically. “God, you’re beautiful.”
“I seem to hear that a lot when we’re in this position. Is it the sofa?”
Greg laughed. “It’s not the sofa.” He ran his hands up Mycroft’s thighs. “It’s your legs, and skin, and your lovely flushed face.” He kissed Mycroft’s belly. “Looking up your body from between your legs when I’m about to go down on you is a gorgeous sight.”
Mycroft dropped his head back. “Hearing you say it like that. Dear god.”
Applying his usual artistry, Greg had Mycroft moaning almost immediately. He was good at this, and he knew it, and loved using his experience to drive his boyfriend crazy. He enjoyed it just as much as Mycroft did, he got off on performing oral sex almost as much as he did receiving it. Before long, Mycroft was gripping his hair and putting pressure on the back of his head, which was so fucking hot. He really wanted Mycroft to fuck his mouth, but didn’t think he was at a level of self-confidence where he’d be willing to do something he’d view as degrading.
“Greg,” Mycroft moaned. He was far too good at this. “Please, please--”
He pulled off. “What, did you need something?” His answer was obviously an expletive in another language. Maybe Russian. “Well, if you insist.” He swallowed Mycroft to the root. He listened to two gratifying screams before he finally came down his throat. After just a moment, the gripping fingers were smoothing through his hair.
“That was fantastic,” Mycroft whispered, breathless. He looked down at Greg to see him stroking himself. “Come here.”
“I’m so close.” Greg wedged himself between Mycroft and the back of the sofa. “Just touch me, please, love.”
“You’re gorgeous, do you know that?” Mycroft asked as he took Greg in his hand. “Watching you pleasure me is equally erotic to the act itself. Touching you like this is like a reward for a good deed that I’ve never done.”
“God, Myc, so good,” Greg groaned, the words filtering in through the haze of arousal. Those long, elegant fingers could bring him to the edge crazy fast. He pressed his face into Mycroft’s neck, panting.
“I love feeling you pressed against me, breathless in your pleasure. Thrusting into my hand, too eager to wait for me. Your breath on my skin.” Mycroft pressed his lips to Greg’s sweaty forehead. “Come for me, my love.”
“Yes, god, Myc--” Greg lost the ability to form syllables and gave a hoarse shout as he came. He lay on Mycroft’s chest trying to remember how to breathe. Those soft, manicured hands were too good. “God, thank you, that was amazing.”
“Will this be a new tradition? Christmas morning sex?”
“That sounds like a great idea.” Greg kissed Mycroft’s damp neck. “We should probably have Christmas afternoon and Christmas evening sex, too.”
“Do try to remember that we are middle-aged men not teenagers, dearest.”
“You make me feel like I’m 18 again.”
“I was a rather more bookish 18, I’ll say you make me feel 22 again.” Minus the devastating betrayal.
“We have a year to work back up to fighting form. We’ll just have to have lots of sex.”
Mycroft laughed softly. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m also sticky. Bath or shower?”
“Hmm, bath I think. Proximity and what not.”
“Would you consider a nap after we soak for a while?” Greg started to wiggle free from the sofa as Mycroft started sitting up.
“That sounds decadent. Let’s see how we feel after sufficient boiling.”
As it turned out, a nap did sound quite nice after an hour or so up to their necks in hot water. After a nap, more sex sounded quite nice. Slow, sleepy, sex with soft moans and gentle kisses. By the time they’d had a hot shower, Greg was starving.
“So far we’re doing a good job of cementing our new tradition of sex three times on Christmas. But I need energy if we want to get naked again before midnight.”
Mycroft laughed. “I’d best feed you then, wouldn’t want you to be too weak to perform.”
“Since we’re having another Christmas dinner tomorrow, I’m in favor of like curry or pasta or Chinese.”
“There is a nice Chinese restaurant I have enjoyed on Christmas before, if you would like to go. Then we could find Christmas lights to gaze upon.”
“Too bad we don’t have a helicopter to cruise the city,” Greg joked.
“Is that something you would enjoy?”
“Please don’t tell me you own a helicopter.”
“No,” Mycroft laughed. “But a helicopter tour can be arranged with sufficient planning. Next year.”
“If we’re not in Tahiti.”
“Hmm…maybe not Tahiti. Somewhere less sunny. Since we’re going to the Caribbean in September.”
“Oh, is that a firm plan, now?”
Mycroft walked over to where Greg was buttoning his shirt, and looked at him shyly. “I rather hoped it could be a firm plan. For us to have time together, with no distractions, in a tropical paradise.” And bond?
Greg left off buttoning to take Mycroft’s hands. “I think that sounds perfect. Chilled champagne?” Bond with me next year.
“Chilled champagne.” We have a coded phrase for my heat.
Dinner was lovely, but it was so cold that they abandoned the idea of walking to look at holiday lights in favor of returning home for hot chocolate and cuddling on the sofa.
And as it turned out, two middle-aged men could actually have sex three times on Christmas day.
Hope you enjoyed Christmas part 2. What do you think of the gifts the boys gave each other? Mycroft's new bracelet says "I will always love you, gorgeous."
Chapter 22: and this is the deepest secret
Sorry this took so long! My mom came out from Oklahoma for Christmas, then I got horribly sick (omg I thought I'd die), then I had my wisdom teeth pulled! @_@ This is the last Christmas chapter, I hope you enjoy it.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
“Are you sure I look alright?”
Greg chuckled at the role-reversal. “Yes, love, you look fine. My mum and dad do not expect you to wear your usual three-piece suit.”
Mycroft studied his reflection in the full-length mirror. “I don’t know, Greg, is this too casual for a holiday dinner?”
“Myc, my niece and nephew will be in their pajamas all day. So will my brother, for that matter. I don’t think my dad has pants other than jeans. Relax.”
Greg, in fact, was wearing his nice jeans with a snuggly maroon jumper that was a few years past its prime. And trainers. With the aforementioned snowman socks.
Still, Mycroft thought. He was in casual grey chinos with a blue and grey argyle sweater over a white shirt. He’d stubbornly refused to wear jeans to meet Greg’s family for the first time.
“You are gorgeous, Mycroft. You look young and sophisticated. I want to throw you down and snog you like a teenager.”
Mycroft turned and kissed his silly boyfriend on the nose. “You are ridiculous.”
“You keep telling me that, and I just keep taking it as a compliment.” He planted a smacking kiss on Mycroft’s lips. “Let’s get going, love. My mum probably has tons of snacks out until dinner and my sister will take all the olives.”
Greg’s parents lived in a rather nice townhouse in Pimlico. He was greeted enthusiastically at the door by a woman with the exact same brown eyes.
“It’s about time you got here!”
“Christ, Meg, it’s only 10am!” Greg replied, squeezing his sister. “Leave off, let me introduce you.” He pulled away. “Megan, this is my boyfriend, Mycroft. Mycroft, this is my annoying little sister, Megan.”
Mycroft politely extended his hand. “So nice to meet you--” His words were smothered with an enthusiastic hug.
“It’s wonderful to finally meet you!” She released him to arm’s length. “The mysterious boyfriend, exposed at last!”
“Do you think we could actually go into the house now?” Greg complained, pulling Mycroft close.
“You’re no safer in there,” Megan threatened, but let them in all the same. “When the kids see that Uncle Greg is here, you’re toast.”
They followed Greg’s sister to the sitting room. “Greg and Meg?” Mycroft whispered.
Greg laughed. “My parents have an unnatural love for the letter G. My brother is Gavin.”
“Hasn’t Sherlock called you Gavin?”
“Yes. Arsehole. We all have A middle names, too. Meg is Annette, and Gavin is Anthony.”
Suddenly screams ripped through the air. “UNCLE GREG!” two small voices shrieked in unison. Mycroft watched in horror as two pajama-clad children bowled into the man in question.
Greg immediately dropped down on his knees to give them both a huge bear hug. “Hi guys! Have you been good?”
The boy, looking to about sevenish, answered “No,” with that same cheeky tone his uncle used all of the time. The girl, about ten, answered “Maybe.”
“Do you even deserve the presents I brought?”
“Here, let me go, I’ve got someone for you to meet.”
Both children released Greg and he stood up. “Ally, Mark, this is my boyfriend, Mycroft. Myc, this is Alison, ten, and Mark, seven.”
Both children appeared fascinated by the tall, serious man. “I hope you’re nicer than Aunt Kristen,” Alison quipped, hand on her hip and an extremely exaggerated look of aggravation on her little face.
“Yeah, she was mean.” Mark looked very serious.
“I shall endeavor to be so.” Mycroft politely extended his hand first to Alison and then to Mark. They both seemed very impressed.
Then they took off, yelling, “Gran! Gran! Uncle Greg is here!”
Greg’s mother had the same brown eyes and infectious smile. She greeted Greg with a hug. “Welcome, love, happy Christmas.”
“Happy Christmas, Mum. Here, meet Mycroft.”
Mrs. Lestrade gave Mycroft an appraising look. “Well, you are a proper gentleman, aren’t you! Happy to finally meet you in the flesh, mystery man.”
“Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Lestrade.”
“Please, it’s Nancy.” She bypassed Mycroft’s outstretched hand to embrace him. “Thank you for making Greg so happy.”
Mycroft smiled. “He makes me just as happy.”
“Good. He’s a good man.” She pushed them both toward the large sectional sofa. “Sit! I’ll get you some drinks. What would you like?”
“Coffee, Mum, it’s early.”
“Tea would be lovely, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Of course not!”
Mycroft looked at the mass of toys surrounding the large Christmas tree. Mark was busily constructing something from interlocking blocks, while Alison was brushing the hair of a very lovely doll. Megan was sitting in the large corner chair with her feet curled under her.
“Where’s Gavin? And Dad?”
“Went for more potatoes. Mum ran out.”
“She’s not forcing us to try a new and exciting turnip dish she found on Pinterest?”
Mycroft smothered a laugh.
“No, a new and exciting potato dish from Pinterest.”
Greg groaned. “Pinterest will be the death of me.”
“Shut it, you two, it’s just roasted rosemary potatoes with olive oil.” She handed Greg and Mycroft their cups. “Don’t listen to them, Mycroft, I’m completely capable of cooking dinner.”
“That was once!” she retorted, mock-angry.
Mycroft sipped his tea. It was too sweet and milky, but he didn’t say anything. Greg took a sip of his coffee.
“Bleck, Mum, how much sugar did you think I needed?”
“Hush, everything from my hands is perfection.”
Meg called from the corner, “Turnips.”
There was a commotion at the front door when Greg’s father and younger brother returned bearing potatoes.
Gavin, like Megan, shared his mother’s dark eyes, but his hair was also dark, where Megan’s was lighter brown. Mr. Lestrade was clearly the source of the dark hair – his was only a little more silver than Greg’s. His eyes were a startling bright blue.
“This must be the boyfriend!” he crowed. Greg and Mycroft stood. “Paul.” He held out a hand.
“Mycroft.” Mr. Lestrade had a very firm handshake.
“Nice to meet ya.” He turned to Greg. “Gimme a hug.” He grabbed Greg in a bear hug. “You been spendin’ all your time with this bloke?”
“Yep.” Greg pulled Mycroft close and put an arm around him. “I kinda love him.”
Mycroft blushed. He was very unused to this kind of ebullient affection. “I love you, too.” And they think I’m an alpha. They don’t even care.
Gavin hugged Greg next. “Be careful, Mum and Meg hid mistletoe all over the house.”
“Why am I not surprised.”
“Uncle Greg! Where’s my present?”
Everyone looked down at Mark. “I left it in the car until I knew if you deserved it.”
“Gah, Uncle Greg.”
“Gah, yourself, young man. Do you think you’re worth a walk back to the car? You already got tons of toys yesterday.” In reality, Greg had forgotten the gifts, but the kids didn’t need to know that.
Alison looked up from her spot near the tree. “He doesn’t deserve it, Uncle Greg. I do, though, give me both.”
Gavin laughed. “Ally, you need to give away some toys, you don’t need two more.”
“Yeah, right,” she replied with attitude.
Mycroft surprised himself by chiming in “Perhaps I’ll take them both. I’ve no toys at my house.”
“But you’re a grown-up, Uncle Myc!”
Mycroft was speechless. I’m Uncle Myc?
“Jeez, I’ll just go get the presents, the things I do for you kids.” Greg made a show of being annoyed and stomping out of the room.
Leaving Mycroft at the mercy of his siblings.
“So, Mycroft, how long have you known Greg?” She made no effort to sound casual. This was an interrogation.
“Over ten years, now.”
“Oh? How did you meet?”
“We became acquainted through his work with my brother.”
“Really. Who’s your brother?”
Mycroft saw no reason to hide the truth. “Sherlock Holmes. You may have heard of him?”
Gavin’s jaw dropped. “Sherlock Holmes is your brother?”
“I’m afraid so. It is a burden I must shoulder alone.”
They both laughed. “Greg’s told us stories,” Meg added.
“I’m sure all of them are true. Especially if he was extremely unpleasant.”
“Are you a detective, too?”
Mycroft shook his head. “No, nothing so exciting. I hold a minor position in the British government.”
“Terribly.” Mycroft sipped his too-sweet tea. “But I find that I have enough excitement in my life through Sherlock’s endless escapades.” He paused. “Inconvenience describes it better.”
“Well, now you have a cop for a boyfriend.” Meg had an eyebrow raised.
A soft smile formed on Mycroft’s lips without his permission. “Greg has brought a level of joy and excitement to my life that I’d no idea was achievable. Though I must say, we do try to avoid excitement when possible.”
Greg walked back into the room bearing two brightly-colored gift bags. “Alright, you lot. Mark, this one is yours, Ally, this one’s yours.” He handed off the bags and dropped onto the sofa with Mycroft.
Each child got a game for the new system their father had given them. Soon a heated debate began about which game would be played first.
“Did Meg grill you while I was gone?”
“Yes.” That was both Megan and Gavin.
Mycroft chuckled. “Perhaps a bit.”
The gentle grilling continued intermittently the entire day. The Lestrade family was fascinated by the formal, polite gentleman that so clearly loved their son and brother. Mycroft was consciously trying to act like a normal person, and thought he wasn’t failing too miserably.
Sometime in the afternoon, Greg asked Mycroft if he wanted to see his old bedroom. “It’ll give you insight into my personality development.”
“Will your family not suspect that we are engaging in something inappropriate? Taking a boy to your bedroom and what not.”
Greg laughed and tugged at his hand. “Come on.”
They climbed to the third floor. “Mum and Dad and Meg are on the second floor. Gavin, me, and Mum’s sewing are up here.”
Greg opened the first door on the left. “There’s no place like home.”
Greg’s mother had left the room largely unchanged from when the boisterous teenager had lived in it. There were two rock band posters on the walls that Mycroft, of course, did not recognize. Above the desk was a cork board pinned with pictures of Greg and his friends. The bed was currently made up with black and grey plaid sheets and a maroon duvet, but strong evidence suggested a small child had been sleeping in it the night before. Mycroft spotted a guitar case in the corner.
“You play the guitar?” He’d had no idea.
Greg laughed. “16-year-old me was going to be a rock star.”
“I discovered that guitar is a lot harder than it looks and I can’t sing.”
Mycroft frowned. “But you can sing. I’ve heard you several times, you have a very nice voice.”
Greg kissed his cheek. “Kind of you to say so. My band – and my wife – would definitely disagree with you.”
The pictures above the desk drew Mycroft’s eye. “I see you’ve always been fond of zippers and leather.”
“Can’t go wrong, it’s a classic look for a guy who likes punk music and motorcycles.”
“And you played football?” Sweaty, twenty-something Greg was quite a sight.
“Since I was about four. See the guys in that pic? We still get together to play, then go to the pub and talk about how we’re too old for it.”
“Your motorbike?” Mycroft pointed to a grinning teenage Greg next to a gleaming blue motorcycle.
“No,” Greg laughed. “My mum wouldn’t ever have let me get one, and once I was at a point where I could own a vehicle, a car was more practical.”
Mycroft looked over Greg’s bookcase. There were at least one hundred well-worn volumes crammed in, some places having double rows. “You were quite the reader.”
“I loved reading, especially mysteries and sci-fi. Still do, just don’t have as much time. Those box sets of The Lord of the Rings and The Chronicles of Narnia were my dad’s.”
Turning, Mycroft smiled. “Young Greg seems to have been the kind of boy I would have despised, but secretly envied. Everything about you was frivolous and transient, you had no substance.”
“Young Greg would have called you a bloody prat and hated you for being such a stuck-up prick.” He slid his arms around Mycroft’s neck. “Good thing we both matured.”
Mycroft pulled Greg close and kissed him. “Indeed. I do so love you.”
“Love you, too. Prat.”
Just then, a voice carried up the stairs. “You boys get down here this instant and enjoy this family togetherness!”
Laughing, Greg and Mycroft trotted downstairs. “Bugger, I didn’t notice that on the way up.” Greg pointed.
“It was inevitable.” Positioned beneath the mistletoe, Mycroft cupped Greg’s cheek and pressed their lips together.
He was unprepared, however, for the clapping and hollering from Greg’s family, and jumped.
“Were you all just standing there, waiting for us to kiss?”
“Yes,” Megan and Gavin replied in unison.
“You need hobbies.”
Greg’s mum laughed. “Dinner will be ready in just a bit, won’t you come pour the wine?”
There was more mistletoe in the entry to the kitchen, leading to an amused kiss between the two. “Were you afraid I was making up having a boyfriend and were going to catch us out by not kissing?”
“No, we just wanted to embarrass you for our own amusement.”
Greg spotted mistletoe hung above the sink and warned Mycroft. “Don’t come too close, there’s more over here.”
Mycroft ignored the warning and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “Perhaps I want to kiss you.”
“Oh god, you are sickeningly cute,” Megan complained. “Do you have another brother, Mycroft? One who likes sarcastic brunettes with two children?”
Everyone laughed. “Sadly, no, I’ve only Sherlock. And he hates everything.”
“I wonder what would happen, though, if him and John were caught under the mistletoe?”
Mycroft gave an exaggerated look of consideration. “It bears investigating. I deduce that it would be very entertaining to film.”
Greg chuckled as he walked back past the sink mistletoe, kissed Mycroft’s cheek, then headed into the dining room with the wine. He and Mycroft struggled to keep from laughing as they were reminded to kiss again as they exited the kitchen. “You all need lives.”
“Gran, you didn’t kiss Papa under the mistletoe just now.”
“Very observant of you, Alison.” Mycroft smiled at the little girl. There was so much intelligence and curiosity in her blue eyes. Perhaps she would follow in her uncle’s footsteps one day.
“Yah, Mum.” Gavin sat at the table. “You’re making Greg and Mycroft put on a show, and it’s a little disgusting, you should have the same punishment.”
“Here, now, kissing your father isn’t a punishment,” she laughed, trying to look stern and failing.
“Come on, Gran, kiss Papa so I can have turkey!” Mark had priorities.
Kiss completed, dinner commenced. Mycroft had never had such a pleasant Christmas dinner. Everyone was teasing, but it was good-natured. The children were still children, but behaved so well Mycroft forgot just how young they were. The food was lovely. He silently vowed that he would bring the wine the next time, however, and took small sips. The topics ranged from politics (the Lestrades were quite liberal for people of their age) to religion (the children’s father was pressuring Megan to put them in Catholic school, though they were not members of the church) to sports (Greg and Gavin vehemently disagreed on the best football teams) to the arts (Megan wanted to see an adaptation of Hamlet that was announced featuring a very popular and talented actor). It took Mycroft a moment to determine what was so different about the experience, and he realized that it was respect. They all respected each other’s opinions and ideas, even if they did not agree. No one was insulting anyone else. No arguing occurred save Alison and Gavin trying to determine who got the last roll. And they all respected each other as people. Even Alison and Mark were respected, and their thoughts and comments were given equal attention to those of the adults. It is no wonder that Greg is such a good man. His family is wonderful. I am so lucky to have found him. He would be an amazing father. He pushed wistful thoughts of their imaginary daughter out of his mind.
“Uncle Myc, you said Sherlock Holmes is your brother, right?”
Mycroft focused his attention on Alison. “Yes, he is.”
“He’s terribly, terribly, smart, isn’t he? He seems to know everything.”
“He is very smart, and knows many things, but that is not how he solves crimes.”
She cocked her head, and gave him a very serious look. “Then how does he do it?”
“Sherlock has trained himself to see the things that no one else can see. He can take in all of those tiny details and makes connections between them that seem obvious to him, but most people would never notice. He uses these skills to deduce what has happened. He can often tell people things about themselves that they, themselves, have never actually noticed.”
“Mycroft can do the same thing,” Greg added with a gentle note of pride in his voice.
“What can you see about me that I don’t know, Uncle Myc?”
Mycroft just couldn’t help the lump in his throat from Alison referring to him as her uncle. “I note that although you are ten years old, you are nearly eleven, and keenly aware that you will soon have the responsibilities and struggles of going to secondary school. You know that this worries your mother, and you choose to indulge in more juvenile pastimes, just has playing with your new doll, or building blocks with your brother, where your mother can see you and be reassured that you are still a child. You enjoy reading, I can clearly tell from your vocabulary, but you get lower marks in school because you are stubborn like your uncle and disdain reading things you dislike. The scar above your left eyebrow was not from a fall, but when you recklessly took on an older boy who was teasing one of the younger children. You are intensely curious and question everything, not because you are contrary as your teachers believe, but because you thirst to know everything about the world. I believe that you idolize your uncle because you, too, would like to be a detective, and that is why you have asked me how Sherlock solves crimes.”
The entire table was silent.
Ally spoke first. “My birthday is January 6th.”
Mycroft smiled. “That is also my brother’s birthday.”
She was delighted. “That was completely amazing, Uncle Myc! I do want to be a detective like Uncle Greg.”
Greg squeezed Mycroft’s knee under the table. “Mind, when Sherlock does that, he’s about 100% more rude, and only says things that are embarrassing.”
“What’s he said about you, Greg?” Gavin laughed.
“What hasn’t he said about me? Most recently he said I was dull and predictable, and more of an idiot than he thought.”
“I shan’t mention any of the things he said about me, they’re not to be shared in mixed company.”
“He’s probably just sad that he doesn’t he doesn’t have a nice boyfriend like you,” Ally pointed out. “When I have something Mark wants and he knows he can’t have it, he get upset and says awful things, too.”
“Very perceptive of you, Alison. His poor attitude has left him with few friends.”
“What about that fellow, Dr. Watson, that follows him about?” Paul asked. “He seems rather upright and still hangs about with your brother.”
“I’ve seen John and Sherlock together, I swear, John is the only person that has ever put the berk in his place. He’s improved dramatically since he met John, and has almost started to think before he speaks.” Greg took a sip of his wine and grimaced. “John and I have gotten together over a pint to ponder how we can stand him more than once.” He looked at his mother. “Who picked this wine? It’s like drinking expired cough syrup.”
“I picked it cuz there’s a devil on the label,” Mark explained.
“That explains it.” Gavin pushed back from the table. “Beers, gents?”
“Ta, Gav, much appreciated. Bring more rolls from the kitchen when you come back.”
“I’ll just get some fizzy water, been having too much beer,” Paul said, standing. “What can I get ya, Mycroft?”
“Sparkling water would be excellent, thank you.”
“Excuse me, Gavin, Dad, where did you get the idea that only the men at the table needed drinks? I want a beer, thank you very much. What do you want, Mum?”
“Thank you, Megan, you’re quite right. Fizzy water would be fine.”
“Do Papa and Uncle Gavin have to kiss?” Mark asked in abject horror.
“No,” Megan laughed. “Only married people and boyfriends and girlfriends have to kiss under the mistletoe.”
The large sectional sofa and chair held them all for post-dinner film-watching, as long as the children lounged on the floor with pillows and blankets. That lasted perhaps half an hour, before Mycroft was the only adult in the room who was still awake with Alison and Mark.
“Come sit with us, Uncle Myc,” Mark offered, patting the blanket next to him. “You can help build Legos.”
“Yeah, come over here!”
Unsure how to decline the invitation, Mycroft joined the two children on the floor near the Christmas tree. “I’ve never build anything with Lego before, you’ll have to instruct me.”
Mark pulled over a detailed booklet. “You just have to follow the instructions. This is the potions dungeon. See, here’s Professor Snape and Harry and Hermione.”
“I see. I take it these items are potions?”
Mark nodded. “In the dungeon they make potions to tell the truth or turn into another person, but Ron, he’s not very good at it. And Snape hates them because they’re Gryffindor, and he likes Draco which is dumb and one time he got turned into a ferret.”
“Oh, I see.” Mycroft had no idea what he was talking about. “It appears that the walls are primarily constructed of these grey pieces.”
“Yeah, but I can’t find enough of them to make the wall that high.”
“Ah, I see. Perhaps the best method would be to organize the pieces into piles of like items, so that we can easily find all of the similar bricks.”
“That’s a really good idea. I never thought of that.”
While they sorted the different bricks into neat piles, Alison asked a question, a serious look on her face. “Uncle Myc, do you love Uncle Greg?”
He could feel himself blushing. “Yes, Alison. I love him very much.”
“He was really sad when he was here with Aunt Kristen. Mum said that she was not being good to Uncle Greg, but he was too good of a man to leave her. But I don’t know what that means.”
Oh my, this is going to be interesting. “Marriage, and relationships, are hard to understand, and hard to explain to children, because you do not yet have the experience to relate to the situation.”
“It’s frustrating, though. I want to be sure I’m never like Aunt Kristen when I have a boyfriend or a husband.”
Mycroft’s heart contracted. “That you understand that fact in your mind ensures that you have the tools to never become a woman like Kristen.”
“Uncle Greg is really nice, I can’t understand why anyone would be so mean to him that he couldn’t smile at all.”
“I can’t understand it either, to be honest. But I can try to explain why I think she was unkind to your uncle.”
“Some people are never satisfied with what they have. They must always have something that they perceive as better. Have you met others, at school perhaps, that must always have the newest and best toy or gaming system?”
“Yes, Seamus Rutherford, he’s so annoying. As soon as the PS4 came out, he had to have one, and all of the boys wanted to go to his house and play on it. But once Oliver Jamison got one, he didn’t think the PS4 was so great anymore, and got the new Xbox.”
“That is exactly what I mean. Your uncle is very handsome, and very kind, and very funny. Many people like him, and he has told me that he’s had many girlfriends and boyfriends in his life. He also has a job that seems very exciting, he’s a police detective. He plays football, and a great many men and women admire people who play sports.”
“That’s true. My mum met my dad when he was playing football.”
“I think your former aunt saw your uncle much the way your classmate saw the gaming system. I don’t doubt that at one time she loved him, and I know that he loved her as well. But eventually the things about Greg that made him seem better than other gentleman stopped making her happy. She wanted what she perceived to be better.”
“There’s no one better than Uncle Greg,” Mark commented.
“I’m inclined to agree with you. But he works very, very hard, long hours that keep him out late at night. Criminals do not care if it is your birthday or Christmas, they will commit crimes, and policemen must solve them. In many ways, when one becomes a member of law enforcement, one learns that everything else in life will come second to the work. Your uncle understands this, as do I. But I think that Kristen did not. And she began to think that she needed a new husband that would pay attention to her more.”
“You don’t have to hide it, Uncle Myc, we know she had boyfriends while she was still married to Uncle Greg,” Alison assured him.
“Just like our dad.”
Mycroft looked at Mark. “Just as we cannot comprehend why anyone would hurt Greg, I cannot fathom why anyone would hurt your mother. She is wonderful.”
“I think she’s wonderful, too,” Mark agreed. “She’s a speech therapist at a nursery school and helps babies learn to talk to their mums.”
“That is a noble profession.”
Alison looked at Mycroft very seriously. “You won’t have boyfriends while you’re with Uncle Greg, right?”
Mycroft placed a hand on her shoulder. “I give you my word, Alison, that I will never do that. I love your uncle so very much that I cannot imagine doing such a thing. I know he would never do that to me, either. We trust each other implicitly.”
“What does implicitly mean?”
“It means absolutely, without question.”
“Look Uncle Myc, we got all the walls done! Putting the Legos in piles helped a lot.”
“It looks as if Alison has completed all of the furniture pieces.”
“Let’s finish it, then we can take pictures!” Alison happily placed the work benches on the bumpy floor. “I want a phone, but Mum says I can’t have one until next year.”
“Would you believe that when I was your age, the mobile phone was not available to any but a small few? There were no video game systems for one’s home, and only large companies and universities had computers.”
“Woah, you don’t look that old, I thought you were Mum’s age!”
Mycroft laughed. “In fact, I am not all that old, but these technologies are very new. The first mobile phone was invented in 1977, and I was born in 1975. I’m nearly your uncle’s age, and he’s not very old, either.” He pulled his phone from his trouser pocket. “The computers that allowed astronauts to go to the moon were larger than this room, and less powerful than the processor in this phone.”
“That’s cool but kinda scary, I mean, Mum’s phone turns off by itself all the time, what if the space ship had done that?”
“They didn’t go to the moon in a phone, Ally, duh.”
Mycroft smiled. They sounded like he and Greg did when they were pretending to argue. Well, they both sounded like Greg. “It was extremely dangerous. The men and women who have gone into space have all known about the risks, but felt that it was too important to science and the world not to do it.”
They all worked in silence for a bit, ensuring that the last fiddly bits of the potions laboratory were perfect. After some discussion about the placement of the tiny plastic cauldrons and flasks, they pronounced themselves done.
“Let’s take pictures on your phone, Uncle Myc,” Alison suggested. “You can text them to Mum.”
“Alright.” Mycroft moved around, finding the best shots of the dungeon. “Perhaps you would like to be in the photo? I’m sure your mother would enjoy that.”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Mark agreed. He and Alison posed behind the little walls.
Mycroft snapped a photo. “Would you like to see the photos to ensure they meet with your approval?”
Both little bodies collided with his as they flung themselves down at his sides to look at the phone. Alison expressed her acceptance of the picture. “That looks good, Gran will probably want you to text it to her, too.”
Unbeknownst to the trio by the tree, Greg had awakened and was watching them with amusement and an overwhelming amount of affection. Seeing Mycroft Holmes, the man who orchestrated the British government’s intelligence network, on the floor building a Harry Potter Lego set was terribly endearing. But it was the conversation between Ally and Mycroft that Greg took to heart. People forgot that kids really did understand complicated things. They were aware of more of what was going on than adults gave them credit for. That Ally was afraid that Mycroft would be unfaithful, and was looking out for him, was deeply touching. And that Mycroft was treating her like an adult, and taking her and Mark seriously, was just as important. Most of all, though, it gave Greg a huge balloon of hope that maybe he and Mycroft could have a family. Mycroft was clearly enjoying himself, which he was no doubt surprised by. He had so much knowledge that having little ears to listen was probably both entertaining and gratifying. I want to have a baby with him, so much. He’d known Mycroft would be a wonderful father.
Trying to be sneaky, Greg pulled his phone out and quickly silenced it. Before Mycroft or the kids noticed that he was awake, he snapped two pictures of the love of his life, lit by the rainbow lights on the tree, cuddled up with his niece and nephew. He loved Mycroft more than he thought was even possible. We’re so perfect for each other, I had no idea until I started really considering a relationship with him. But somehow it just works. He was caught watching in just a moment.
“Uncle Greg, you’re awake! Come look at our Legos!” Mark was extremely proud of the accomplishment.
Greg stood and stretched, then went over to the kids and Mycroft. “It looks great, guys. Did Uncle Myc help?”
“He showed me that it would help to put the different pieces in piles so I could find them.”
Greg sat gingerly on the carpet. “That’s smart.” He leaned over and kissed his boyfriend’s cheek. “You guys did a good job. And you didn’t fight at all, or I would have woken up.”
Ally giggled. “We can be good sometimes.” She showed Greg her doll. “I’m excited about my doll, too, but Legos are really cool.”
“She’s very pretty. What’s her name?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Do you have any ideas?”
They didn’t realize it, but Greg and Mycroft were both pondering the name they’d give their mutual imaginary daughter.
“I have an aunt named Evelyn, I’m very fond of that name,” Mycroft suggested.
“That’s an old lady name!”
Greg laughed. “I have a friend named Sally, how about that?”
Ally rolled her eyes. “You guys suck at doll names.”
Their laughter stirred the rest of the sleeping family. “Good lord, what time is it?” Nancy yawned.
Megan checked her phone. “Almost 9. We need pudding immediately.”
The mention of dessert immediately drew the attention of the party treeside. “I want pie!” Mark announced excitedly. “Gran made three whole pies!”
Greg stood up and offered Mycroft a hand. “You’ll get to try the cream pies I was talking about, I’m sure Mum made at least one.”
“I did, peach this time, as well as chocolate silk and a pecan pie recipe I found on Pinterest.”
“I knew Pinterest would be part of the holiday,” Gavin complained.
“I tried it already, it’s a success, I promise!”
All three pies really were delicious, Mycroft especially liked the peach pie. “This is quite lovely, Nancy, thank you so much. I shall now entreat Greg to make one for every holiday.”
Greg gave the pecan pie his seal of approval. “This is really good, I’ve never had anything like this.”
“It’s from a lovely lady in the States.”
“This much sugar should be a controlled substance.”
The evening wrapped up after dessert, and Greg and Mycroft prepared to depart. “This was great, Mum, thanks for putting off dinner ‘til Boxing Day.”
“It was no trouble, and I’m so glad to get to meet Mycroft. He’s a good sort, isn’t he?”
“He is. He can put on airs, but I get to see the real man beneath the mask. I love him so much, Mum.”
“I can tell he’s just right for you. Steady. And he understands your job, doesn’t he?”
Greg nodded. “He works just as much, if not more, than I do. He gets it.”
“That’s good. I expect you to bring him ‘round more often now, young man.”
With a laugh, Greg kissed his mother on the cheek. “Yes, Mum.”
Both men were quiet on the drive back to Mycroft’s flat, exhausted from the day. At 10pm on Boxing Day, there was nearly no traffic, which was always a miracle in London. They propped each other up as they took the elevator to the 12th floor.
“Another successful Christmas, wouldn’t you say?” Greg asked as they opened the door.
“Indeed. Your family is wonderful, Greg. I envy you the relationships you have with your siblings.”
“They were quite taken with you. Ally and Mark adopted you as soon as you walked in.”
Mycroft pulled Greg close, and rested his head on his beloved’s shoulder. “Have never been an uncle before. They treated me as if I was family, just from seeing how much you love me.”
Greg leaned his head against Mycroft’s. “You are family, love. Ally is sharp, and a good judge of character. She knew you were the one for me. I didn’t know she wanted to be a detective though.”
“She’ll be an excellent investigator. Between the two of us, she’ll have an edge on her competition.”
Greg chuckled. “Detective Inspector Alison Pennington. Has a nice ring to it.” He pulled away. “Let’s get some sleep, love. I can’t tell you how glad I am that I took tomorrow off.”
“I’ll have to drop into the office for a few hours, but I’ll be back home to you by 1 or 2.”
Sleep didn’t come to Mycroft as easily as it did Greg, despite his fatigue. He was mentally reviewing the day. The overwhelming feeling of love an acceptance he’d received from the Lestrades was difficult to process. To be a member of that boisterous, affectionate, and intelligent clan was as foreign a concept as going to live on the moon. It was nearly too much to contemplate. But what a thrilling thought, to be Greg’s bonded, to be part of the family, to perhaps bring our own children to the home for holidays. To be loved unconditionally by so many people, merely for loving a member of the family, is so moving. And it certainly didn’t hurt that none of Greg’s family were so stuffy and formal as his. Sitting on the uncomfortable, antique furniture in his grandmother’s home, sipping weak tea and speaking only when spoken to had been dreadfully dull as a child, and he found himself being quite jealous of Alison and Mark getting toys for Christmas and playing with them in their pajamas on the floor. Our daughter will never suffer through an interminable Christmas breakfast followed by receiving scholarly texts, scientific apparatus, and sheet music for Christmas. She will believe in Santa Claus and get lovely things like dolls and Lego and fantasy books. And perhaps sheet music.
Greg turned over and draped himself over his back. “Stop thinking, Mycroft.”
He chuckled. “Easier said than done. I am unaccustomed to being welcomed and accepted. It is a tad overwhelming.” He felt Greg’s answering laugh and a kiss on the back of his neck.
“You’ll get used to it. Don’t be surprised if we’re invited to dinner more often and to birthday parties and dance recitals.”
“I have surprised myself by growing very fond of your niece and nephew so quickly. Historically, I have not fared well in dealing with children.”
“They’re good kids, they have a good mum. Their dad’s a wanker, though. Can’t keep his dick in his trousers. Mum never liked him.”
“Your mother is a good judge of character, I’m told she disliked your wife as well.”
He felt Greg nod against his back. “But she loves you. You have her stamp of approval.”
“I have a horrible fear that she and my mother would be instant friends.” He felt more laughter from behind him.
“My mum would be a terrible influence on your mum, she can be pretty crass after a couple drinks.”
“I think my mother would benefit from being less, how would you say it, uptight.”
“They can go on Pinterest together.”
“God save us all.”
Couple of fun tidbits, the adaptation of Hamlet Megan wants to see is the one Benedict did a couple years ago, I fudged the timing a bit. The peach cream pie is one of my grandmother's recipes, and it's insane how good it is. If anyone wants the recipe, I'll get it from my mom. Ally got a doll because I love dolls, I have a huge collection of asian ball jointed dolls, so I had to sneak at least one doll in! Also, I love Legos like crazy, and if my house was bigger, I'd have tons (my house is very small, California is super expensive).
I have poll for you, dear readers! What do you want for the next chapter?
a) another fun chapter about a drunken Greg and Mycroft after a New Year's Eve party at Sally's house
b) some actual plot
Believe it or not, there is actual plot coming (it's about time). I've already planned to have a missing and deleted scenes fic for all of the *coughsmutcough* that I can't fit in, so the chapter will most likely turn up later. I've also already written like 6 scenes for the fluff-tastic sequel. Leave me a note!